


All In

by little-smartass (Linxcat), spicyshimmy, summerofspock



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Kidfic, M/M, NOT M!PREG, exploration of vulcan psionic abilities!, how many TOS references can I squeeze into one fic, it's basically also a character exploration/study of jim, lots of fluff and intense pining, pseudo-science ahoy, this was started post-STID so is not Beyond compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-13 15:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 87,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/little-smartass, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Jim opens his eyes. Spock’s face is calm. It’s like they’re not talking about what they’re talking about at all - a living, breathing entity that’s made up of parts from both of them. She’s her own individual, sure, but they’re the ones who made her.And Bones.Bones hadsomethingto do with it.Jim’s red blood and Spock’s green blood and this steady, soothing heartbeat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't quite believe that this is finally being posted, after FOUR WHOLE YEARS! spicyshimmy and I started this back after STID came out, then it got left in WIP hell, to be revived this summer by myself with the invaluable help of summerofspock. It has been a pleasure to write, and I am honestly very emotional that you can all finally meet T'Androma for real. I hope you love this fic as much as I've loved working on it.

_*_

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.25. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, except that First Officer Spock’s acting weird._

_...I’m beginning to think I start too many of these logs with ‘Spock’s acting weird.’ Computer, how many of these-_

_*_

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.25. Since our five year mission began in 2260.41, I’ve apparently started forty-three of my captain’s logs with ‘Spock’s acting weird’ or variants on that theme. Whoever ends up reading these things is gonna get a weird impression of First Officer Spock. Who_ is _weird, by the way, but he’s also an exemplary first officer. And an exemplary pain in the ass. God, I sound like Bones. Space is the worst. Spaaaace, grrrrr._

_*_

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.25. Yeah, I just played that back and we’re definitely gonna need some shore leave soon._

*

Night on a starship doesn’t have a strict definition. They can pass multiple suns over a period of twenty-four hours. There’s nothing to rise and set, just the underlying gravitational pull of nearby celestial bodies altering, however slightly, their charted course, and the calculations necessary to compensate for those alterations.

That being said, Jim’s still awake when he knows he should be sleeping.

And somehow he also knows that Spock’s awake when he should be sleeping, too.

Yeah, that’s...that’s a _thing_. There was an  _Incident,_ capital I, on Alpha Ceti VI involving explosive rocks and poisonous dart plants, and though he can’t actually remember much after he collapsed, Bones explained that Spock had mind-melded with him while he was unconscious to prevent him from going into anaphylactic shock and keep him alive long enough for the Doctor to get there with his trusty hypos.

He woke hours later in the medbay to find both men at his side and a sort of tickle in the back of his mind. Spock’s mouth twitched in a gesture Jim’s learned, over time and trial and plenty of error, to interpret as embarrassment. Spock explained that the tickle was just the lingering effects of the meld and that they’d quickly fade.

That was two months ago. Jim closes his eyes and concentrates, casting out a line or reaching out a hand, and - yes. There. A presence. He can sense that Spock is awake, that he’s well, and roughly how far away he is. He wonders if he should be concerned about that as he pulls on his shirt and heads in the direction he’s being called.

Of course, there’s the reciprocal effects to worry about - like how Spock is waiting for him in the room; like how Spock always seems to know he’s coming. That rules out surprise birthday parties and surprise anything, frankly. Even if Spock has insisted that he’s shielded against the deepest parts of the link, nothing can dim Jim’s constant awareness of Spock’s presence, his mental state. Jim sighs, rubbing the familiar tension headache pinching the bridge of his nose as the door to Spock’s cabin door slides open.

Spock’s there, as predicted, with his hands folded behind the small of his back, like all of this is normal.

It’s not normal. But Jim’s not big on normal, anyway.

“This isn’t an us thing now, is it?” he asks, before Spock has a chance to inhale and ruin the moment by calling him Captain. This late at night - this late in their friendship - and a _Captain_ could ruin everything. “You never sleep, I can’t sleep- ah, forget it. It’s not like I slept much before you did the thing anyway.”

 _The thing_.

“Captain,” Spock says.

Jim steps in, the door shuts behind him, and he rolls his eyes in a practised motion. This side-step of the routine is getting to be routine. Two months. The tension headache clearly isn’t quitting any time soon.

“First Officer Spock,” Jim replies. The subtleties of the humour in his response go unremarked upon, but not unnoticed.

“Captain,” Spock repeats, voice a little softer at least, “It is not healthy for you to-”

“You think I don’t know that, Spock? God, I feel like death warmed over-” Jim cuts himself off, then laughs. It’s hollow. Protocol dictates they’ll ignore it. Friendship suggests something else. “Wow. That’s, uh, that _is_ a surprisingly accurate description, isn’t it?”

Jim flops into the chair by his first officer’s immaculate desk and scrubs his hands down his face. Spock’s gaze feels like a physical weight on his shoulders.

“Have you spoken to Doctor McCoy about your sleeping patterns as I advised you two point four weeks ago?”

Jim’s mouth twists into a scowl to hide his embarrassment. “No. No, c’mon, Spock, I hate having him worried about me. You know how he gets. Fussy and cranky - and then he stabs me with a hypo when he thinks I’m not looking. I’ll be fine, I’ll get over it. Can we play some chess?”

Spock’s expression - even though it’s barely shifted - suggests he doesn’t approve of the idea.

“Okay, let’s have it,” Jim says, “Why should we not play chess?”

“Chess is a game that requires focus of the mind.” Jim’s ready to protest that he’s focused, as focused as ever, _more_ than ever, when Spock continues. “Though it is not active in the sense of your more physical pursuits, neither is it, strictly speaking, a relaxing pursuit.”

“Worried that this-” Jim passes his forefinger back and forth through the air between them, “-Is gonna help me beat your moves, huh, Spock?”

Not that, either. Spock still hasn’t sat down and his shadow is long; it’s not making Jim nervous but it is making him thoughtful, which is honestly worse.

“As I have informed you on multiple occasions, I have shielded the bond to prevent the sharing of thoughts and it will therefore provide no benefit to your illogical strategies. Regardless, I believe that you would benefit more greatly from meditation, given the results you presented at Doctor McCoy’s latest physical.”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality-” Jim begins.

“As your first officer, it is my duty to know everything about my captain.”

“You’re ganging up on me. You’re ganging up on me _with Bones._ ”

“Vulcans,” Spock replies, “Do not gang.”

“Sure they do.” Jim stretches, feeling something pop in his shoulder. “Meditation, huh? You really think I’m a suitable candidate?”

“It is my impression that your candidacy, or lack thereof, is exactly why the task should be undertaken,” Spock says.

Jim chuckles. When Spock delivers those lines, _bam_ , he always hits his mark. Jim rubs his chest, too far right of the heart, “Is that your official recommendation, Spock? As my first officer?” Spock inclines his head, brief and small, “Then I guess I’ll have to take it under advisement. Wouldn’t want you to write me up...again.”

Spock breathes out a little heavier than usual; a barely perceptible change but one that connotes a sense of frustration. A very Vulcan sigh. “Captain, I am unsure as to why you are so offended by my logical concern for your wellbeing.”

Jim glances up sharply, a grin forming on his face. “Concerned about me? You, Spock?”

Spock’s mouth tightens. “As your first officer, it is my  _duty_  to-”

Jim flaps a dismissive hand to cut him off, crushing his disappointment before it grows. He isn’t entirely sure how much the Vulcan can sense through their _thing_ but he doesn’t want to further bewilder his friend or complicate the four years left to their mission.

It’s complicated enough as it is.

“Never mind. Meditation, right? Meditation.” Jim licks his bottom lip. “So, what do I have to do? I don’t have to stand on one foot, do I? My foot always falls asleep, and I hate pins and needles.”

“I do not know of any forms of meditation that require such a specific physical arrangement. I believe what you are referring to is in point of fact a form of terran Yoga practice.” Spock gestures to an intricately woven mat on the other side of his quarters, one of the few incongruities of form over function for a logical Vulcan to have. Jim’s always liked that mat. “We will sit over there. Most meditate cross-legged; however, that position may be amended to whatever is most comfortable for you.” He pauses, eyes distant for a moment, and then the dark gaze flicks back to Jim. “Although, Captain, I must first-”

Jim reaches out and catches Spock’s wrist, hand clamping around the sleek blue material of his uniform sleeve. Does he sleep in the thing? Jim wonders. Or, more likely, does he just not sleep?

Jim’s thumb brushes the pale skin along the heel of Spock’s hand. Spock stiffens in his grasp.

“Please,” Heat rises to Jim’s cheeks when he realises that, technically, what he’s doing constitutes begging, “It’s like 2AM. Call me _Jim_.”

“Jim,” Spock complies, after a beat.

So Jim complies, too.

It’s the first rule of captaining as far as Jim’s concerned. Not _know your limits_ or _face your fears_ or _accept your weaknesses_ or even _figure out when to listen to what other people are saying_. But give what you get. Don’t take more than what you return. If there’s one rule Jim plays by, it’s that one.

Well. Maybe it counts as _two_. Still important.

He sits on the mat, folding his legs underneath him. Spock does the same, moving with an unexpected kind of grace given the sharp lines of his body, as he tells Jim to regulate his breathing.

“I’ve never been one for regulations,” Jim says. It’s a good line. Not exactly wasted on Spock, but not exactly appreciated, either.

Spock settles into his seat, which Jim figures is as relaxed as he ever gets. With the rise and fall of his shoulders, the even rhythm of his deep breaths, Jim can feel it working on him like one of Bones’ injections, only without the brief sting of the needle. It’s peaceful, calm, soothing. It might be just what the doctor ordered - and the captain ignored, until the first officer intervened.

In and out. Steady. The tension headache fades into the background and so do his surroundings. Jim’s not sure how much of this is him meditating on his own and how much of it is the undertow of this latent telepathic connection - which, okay, if he’s being honest? That’s exactly what’s had him on edge for so long. Can’t even lie back, relax, and let his thoughts wander. He’d just end up thinking about the one guy who can hear him thinking.  

Or maybe feel him feeling. Jim’s not sure which is worse, though it depends on exactly what he’s feeling at the time…

Jim’s eyes open suddenly, but it’s not because of his own thoughts. Next to him, Spock’s eyes are wide, but distant; this close to him, the discordant note in Spock’s thoughts sticks out like a sore thumb, so unusual that the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Spock-” Jim says.

The presence in Jim’s mind suddenly grows in pressure, like the sound of a speaker crackling to life next to his ear.

 _Jim, I_ \- is loud in his mind and it’s definitely not his thought. It’s not an audible voice but he knows, instinctively, that it’s Spock he’s hearing. Like an autonomic response, Jim reaches out his hand to his first officer to touch, to comfort. Spock’s mouth has dropped open slightly, his gaze still not returned to the room, eyes focused on somewhere far away.

“Forgive me, Captain,” Spock swallows, “I cannot maintain - the shielding is - It is imperative that I-”

Spock’s expression tightens, his hand lifting in the direction of his forehead in an abrupt, aborted gesture. Jim doesn’t need a telepathic link to know that Spock’s in pain, but it ricochets along their connection anyway, and he feels the calm he borrowed for a few precious minutes dissipate. The tension headache returns, sharper now, clearer somehow, and Jim wonders whether it was ever a headache at all or just a manifestation of this burning thing in Spock’s mind, and now, by proxy, _his_.

Spock tries to stand and actually _wobbles_  before Jim grabs his arm, pulling them both to their feet. “Damn it, Spock, how long have you felt like this? And  _you_ were lecturing  _me_ about not going to see Bones? If anyone should be written up-”

“I have been experiencing mild mental discomfort for several weeks now; I had previously assumed it was simply a projection from your own physical discomfort and so took the necessary steps to attempt to alleviate it through improving your health. It seems, however, that I was incorrect in my conclusion. The agitation stems from an outside source...one that I am unable to trace.”

“And it just got worse out of nowhere? Just like that?”

Spock’s pause rackets the intensity of Jim’s tension headache up a couple notches.

“I have not felt such intense pain from another individual with whom I share a telepathic link since the day my planet was destroyed,” he admits.

Jim realises he is holding Spock by both shoulders and quickly releases him. “Another Vulcan?”

“Indeed. A mind unfamiliar to me. I am not entirely certain how it is possible, and yet-”

Spock freezes. For a split second, he’s completely, perfectly still, even the furrow in his brow frozen in place. Then, just as suddenly, he’s moving again, striding across the room with his long legs. Jim has to jog to keep up with him as he powers down the corridor. “Spock - Jesus, Spock, warn somebody. Where are you going?”

“I must contact the Vulcan Council.”

Jim nods vaguely at the bemused crewmembers they pass, attempting to project some semblance of business-as-usual to conceal Spock’s obvious and uncharacteristic agitation. He tries not to think about how many people just saw them both exit the same bedroom in the middle of the ship’s night, and prays his shirt isn’t rumpled enough to start rumours. Well, any _more_ rumours.

“This is a personal matter,” Spock adds brusquely as they come to a halt in front of the turbolift. “I will inform you of any developments should they affect my duties to you and to this ship.”

“Spock,” Jim begins.

Spock steps inside the turbolift. “Your health, Captain,” Spock replies.

The turbolift doors close between them. Jim reaches up, then presses the flat of his palm against the cool surface of the door, squeezing tension through his arm in an attempt to release it. It comes out as a sigh of frustration, before he’s back to normal. Everything’s shipshape. First officer, telepathic connection, two near-death experiences, and all Jim knows for certain is that he’s not a fan of meditation.

*

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.26. Don’t ever have a Vulcan for a first officer._

_No - scratch that. For the record, Vulcans make excellent first officers. They just make terrible friends._

_No - scratch that, too. They’re not so bad. This one, though...Ah, screw it._

_Computer, delete-_

_*_

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.26. Having a little trouble with First Officer Spock. Think he might be keeping valuable information from me. I’m the captain and I’m pretty sure that shouldn’t happen._

_...Nobody actually listens to these things, right?_

*

After twenty hours - six of those involving a slim Vulcan back faced very pointedly in Jim’s direction and a tight-lipped Vulcan mouth responding curtly and promptly in a manner that only suggests Jim’s something Spock just noticed on the bottom of his boot - Jim is getting desperate. With nothing eventful occurring, he leaves the shift early, casting one last, scrutinizing look in Spock’s direction.

There’s no getting through to him when he’s in First Officer Mode.

Uhura corners Jim in the turbolift and doesn’t even let him start speaking before she lays into him. “All right, spill. What have you  _done_?”

“What the- c’mon, Uhura, why do you-”

“Nuh-uh. Don’t you give me that routine, Kirk.” Uhura learned the eyebrow trick pretty well from Spock, that’s for sure. “He doesn’t get like this unless it’s about you two, and because you’re not the one moping, I’m going to go ahead and assume that it’s your fault. Sort it out or spill.”

The  _right now_ is implied but no less obvious. 

Jim scowls, then pinches his nose; the headache hasn’t abated, but the pain has lessened, something’s clouding his perception of it. He suspects Spock is trying to shield it from their link and he’s equal parts thankful and furious.

“You can’t talk to me like that. I’m the _captain_.” It’s the truth, but even Jim would be the first to admit that it’s half-hearted at best.

Uhura’s expression softens and she reaches out to squeeze his arm. “True. But you’re my friend, too.”

“Something’s wrong with him,” Jim blurts out before he has a chance to regret it. He feels a twinge of guilt, knowing how private Vulcans are, but if anyone understands this song and dance, it’s Uhura, “And he’s Spock, so he won’t tell me what it is. But I think-” Technically, Jim _knows_ , “-I think he’s in pain.”

Uhura sighs in commiseration, playing with the end of her ponytail as she orders her thoughts.

“It happens,” she says finally, in a quiet voice. “Spock. Not telling you what’s wrong. Thinking that’s the best way for things to be. ”

“Yeah. That’s Spock.”

Jim lets the silence linger for as long as it needs to before his questions bubble to the surface again. “No advice? No words of wisdom?”

“This one’s uncharted territory,” Uhura replies, “Jim, whenever you’ve needed to push, you’ve pushed. I don’t know what’s stopping you this time.”

The turbolift doors open. Jim’s half-expecting Spock to be there; when he’s not, he realises Spock is doing a better job of blocking him than he first thought.

“Best first officer in the fleet and it had to be Spock,” Jim mutters.

“Good thing he has a decent captain,” Uhura replies, offhand.

Jim bites his lip on a grin, “Is that so, Lieutenant?”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” she examines her nails, deliberately avoiding his gaze but unable to hide a smile, “Probably just scuttlebutt, though.”

“Probably,” He agrees, feeling a just little lighter than before he’d stepped into the lift.

When the teasing glint fades from Uhura’s eyes and she finally looks back at him, Jim knows he’s in trouble. “I’m serious, though, Jim. If it’s as bad as you think, then he’s going to need your help, regardless of what he believes. Don’t let him get away with pushing you away. He does that. He _really_ does that.”

“So I’ve gotta corner him and...what, drag it out of him?” Jim winces at the thought.

“Pretty much. Good luck with _that._ ”

“Can’t  _you_ ask him? You two are still close.”

Uhura’s mouth twitches and he can tell she’s barely refraining from rolling her eyes as she steps out of the turbolift, “Jim, if he’s not telling  _you,_ there’s no chance he’ll tell  _me_.”

He watches her walk away for a few seconds before yelling, rather feebly if he’s honest, “What's that supposed to mean?”

The only response he gets is Uhura’s arms thrown in the air and a rather frustrated, “Oh my God _,_ ” to the empty corridor. She doesn’t even turn around.

*

The final straw arrives two hours later, and Jim realises he can’t put this off any longer.

When they’d begun the five year mission, in an effort to be the efficient captain he knew his crew deserved, he’d put into place a system of solar-weekly team meetings. Usually it’s just the bridge crew and a few others commiserating over replicator coffee and sharing updates on their various sectors, but Jim enjoys them as they are a chance to solve minor issues before they become big enough to rock the boat - figuratively and literally.

They tend to be a casual affair, though true to form Spock is always the first one to arrive, takes the minutes no matter how off-topic conversations end up, and is always the last to leave.  

This week, when Jim shoulders open the meeting room door, terrible coffee in one hand and whatever passes for a replicated chicken sandwich these days in the other, the room is empty.

He has about three seconds to be confused by this before Uhura and Carol arrive, energetically debating the merits of some new game installed in the rec room. Bones trails them, nose still buried in a PADD, and in the following few minutes Scotty, Sulu, Chekov, and the security officer that Jim still affectionately thinks of as ‘Cupcake’ turn up. As the group get comfortable and the bustle dies down, Jim watches the door, drumming his fingers on his Starfleet-issue mug. Being ten minutes late for a meeting - being ten minutes late for _anything_ \- is unheard of for Spock. Concern begins to gnaw at him.

Bones leans in and jerks his head towards the empty seat on Jim’s left, “Where’s Spock?”

Jim attempts a smile, “Probably just got caught up with an ensign in one of the labs - you know how they like to run their research by him.”

“He wasn’t in the labs when I left,” Carol pipes up, “I was actually looking for him, I had some questions I wanted to ask about his thesis.”

There’s an awkward silence for a few moments until Chekov voices the question everyone’s thinking.

“Do...do ve start vithout him?”

All eyes turn somewhat guiltily to the door, as if expecting the Vulcan to come marching in and catch them in the act. He doesn’t. Everyone looks at Jim. Uhura’s gaze in particular - the most knowing - makes his stomach twist.

Jim clears his throat and stands, tugging down the bottom of his shirt, “I’ll, uh, see if I can get hold of him on his communicator. I’m sure it’s nothing major and he’ll be along in a logical Vulcan minute.”

He hurries out into the corridor to the sound of Bones musing loudly about the possible scenarios that might have made Spock late. Most of them involve romantic interest in computers. Jim shakes his head, snapping open his communicator and jabbing in Spock’s frequency. Any other day and he might have been as amused as Bones, but with Spock’s _weirdness_ all shift, and the agitated way he’d reacted the night before, Jim can’t help but be worried.

“Captain?”

“Spock!” Jim hisses, lowering his voice as two ensigns pass and salute him in the corridor, “Where the hell are you? Our weekly meeting was supposed to start ten minutes ago.”

There is no response for a few seconds. Jim is certain he can actually feel his blood pressure rising.

“My apologies, Captain,” Spock’s voice is unusually hesitant, “I will not be able to attend the meeting.”

Jim breathes out harshly through his nose, “Really,” he says flatly, “Feel like enlightening me about why?”

“I have time-sensitive research which requires my immediate attention.”

“You could have let me _know_.”

“I apologise, Captain; I should not have allowed my personal research to interfere with my duties to the ship and yourself. I had assumed that the issue would have been resolved by the point at which my presence was required at the meeting. I was...incorrect in this assumption.”

Scotty sticks his head out of the meeting room doorway, eyebrows raised. Jim presses his lips into a tight line and shakes his head. Scotty retreats with a sympathetic grimace. When the door closes again, Jim heads down the corridor a little further for privacy.

“Is this about-” he begins, but Spock cuts him off.

“Captain, I will not allow this...research to interfere with my duty again, and I understand if you believe disciplinary action necessary-”

“What? Spock, I’m not _mad_ at you, I just-”

“-However, with all due respect, I must continue with my research. Spock out.”

The communicator goes dead. Jim stares down at it, imagines the immense satisfaction he would get from throwing it at the wall, and then clips it back to his belt.

“Alright,” he mutters to the empty corridor. “ _Now_ I’m mad at you.”

Enough is enough. Time to push.

*

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.27. Wish me luck. I’m going in._

*

These days, Jim knows when Spock’s getting closer. And Spock knows when Jim’s getting closer, so there’s no chance of catching Spock in an attempt to change course the moment he realises he’s running into an ambush.

Spock wouldn’t do that.

So it’s not exactly an ambush. Technically. It’s a concerned captain waiting for his concerning first officer to show up outside his quarters. Jim crosses his arms and waits for Spock to round the corner, predicting the timing to the millisecond. That level of precision is a Vulcan thing he’s picked up, among other Vulcan things he’s picked up.

If only he could put them back down again.

“Captain.” Spock’s formality is the worst of it. They shouldn’t have this kind of distance between them

“Inside, Spock.” Jim pulls the Captain Kirk voice. It’s not the first time he’s done that, but there’s weight and experience behind it now. It’s a dangerous thing, that voice; it fills him with a confidence and authority he’s not sure he deserves yet, but he can’t deny its effectiveness, “That’s an order.”

“Understood, Captain,” Spock replies.

He enters. Jim follows.

Spock goes to stand primly by his chair, and, Jim notes as he walks in that Spock has very deliberately positioned himself with the desk between them. He’s not sure if that’s more amusing or worrying. His first officer’s hands are clasped behind his back, shoulders drawn in one smooth line, seemingly untouched by the stifling tension that’s been building between them over the past few days.

But Jim can read him better than that by now and he can see the tell-tale signs of exhaustion and stress in the pinch of Spock’s mouth, the twitching muscle in his jaw as he waits for Jim to speak.

Jim lets him stew for a few moments, leaning against the closed door on the other side of the room. Despite the intention of this confrontation being to ‘corner’ Spock, he knows Spock’s tendency to clam up or, worse, lash out, when placed in a situation where he doesn’t have enough personal space.

So Jim gives him space, gives him a whole room of space in the middle of _actual_ space, and calmly waits.

Well, he’s calm for the first minute or so, anyway. In the end it doesn’t matter because Spock breaks first. Which, if anything, indicates just how drastic the situation actually is.

“Captain, is there a particular reason you have barricaded me in my own quarters?” Spock asks.

“Maybe,” Jim replies. “Is there a particular reason you still feel like you’ve gotta face everything alone, without letting anybody help?”

Spock’s face does the thing, the _define your questions so that they are not unfathomably without answer_ thing, though his mouth is tight and his jaw tighter. Jim wishes - _illogically_ , he knows - that he had never asked Spock to shield their thoughts from each other. What he wouldn’t give to be able to just look into Spock’s head and _understand._

“You know what I’m talking about,” Jim says.

Spock’s expression says ‘perhaps’, but outloud, frustrating as ever, he says, “Clarify.”

“I’m not clarifying. _You’re_ clarifying. What the hell’s going on with you, Spock?”

“There are, as with any complex living organism, innumerable things ‘going on’ simultaneously.”

“Spock.”

“Captain.”

“I’m ordering you,” Jim says finally - and this is it, that cornering push, a move that shouldn’t have to be made between friends, “To tell me what’s happening with you. This has nothing to do with us, friendship, whatever this is. I need a First Officer who can do his job and do it right, and you need to tell me what’s keeping your head out of the game.”

Spock’s pause is brief. Even he won’t argue with protocol or chain of command. It’s an order. Jim doesn’t like it, but he likes the alternatives even less.

“Very well.” Spock focuses on a point beyond Jim’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the far wall. “I have been informed by the Vulcan Science Council that my child is dying.”

It takes a good few seconds for Jim’s brain to catch up with his ears and by that point his mouth has caught on and dropped wide open.

“Your- Your  _what_ ?” Maybe he heard wrong. No; Spock said it. He definitely said it. _My child_. “You have a  _kid_ ? Since when? With who? Oh my God, Spock, is _that_ why you and Uhura broke up? Actually, uh, no, sorry, that doesn’t matter - don’t answer that. Since when have you had a _kid_ , Spock?”

Spock seems vaguely puzzled by Jim’s incessant babbling but he still can’t meet Jim’s eyes, which is when the second half of the sentence really sinks in.

“Oh, Spock,” he breathes, heart twisting. He takes a few steps towards him, hands reaching out, then remembers who exactly he’s reaching for and jerks them back. Spock’s gaze flickers towards him. “ _Dying_? Is that- That’s why you’ve been in pain.”

Spock nods curtly. “Yes. As for your plethora of other questions-”

“Seriously, I mean it. You don’t have to answer the one about Uhura,” Jim cuts in quickly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. Spock clears his throat and gives him a look that is so clearly _If You Are Quite Finished With Your Illogical Interruptions_ that he almost smiles.

But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not right now.

“As for your other questions; I was unaware as to the existence of the child before I confirmed it yesterday with the Vulcan Council. Do you remember, shortly after we returned home from the  _Narada_ incident, that I was considering leaving Starfleet to help with the repopulation of the Vulcan species?”

“Oh my God,” Jim says.

“Allow me to continue, Captain.” Spock waits for Jim to nod. Jim manages it. “My duty to Starfleet and the Enterprise notwithstanding, I have always remained equally committed to my duties to my people.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Jim repeats. “You didn’t. You… you offered yourself up for repopulation?”

“In a manner of speaking, I did. Vulcan could not commit all of its women of childbearing age to the task when they were also necessary to the numerous rebuilding efforts. Therefore, it was logically decided that to begin repopulation, a scientific approach, while significantly more complicated, was the wisest course of action. I, too, donated my genetic material for this task in order to provide our scientists with the broad sampling of resources they would require for this task.”

Jim absolutely does _not_ think about Spock ‘donating’ his genetic material. It takes a lot of willpower.

“However,” Spock continues, “Perhaps due to the mix of human genetic material, it would appear that the fetus developed with my DNA sample is not projected to survive its final stages of development. As there is nothing that can be done, I can assure you, the difficulty I have caused you due to our...circumstances will not be indefinite.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait - so you’re just going to let this kid  _die_?”

Spock purses his lips. “I assure you, Captain, that while the loss of potential life is regrettable, there is no action that can be taken within reasonable means that would-”

“Hah!” Jim stabs a triumphant finger towards Spock’s chest. He’s moving forward and probably - nah, definitely - crowding his personal space now, but Jim’s won the battle of Vulcan Silence and he’s so close to winning the whole war that he can practically taste it. “You’re doing your  _special Vulcan wording_ thing again, Spock. ‘Within reason’. Within  _reason_. That means you found something a little less reasonable that could help, didn’t you? That’s what you’ve been doing all day; it’s why you’ve been avoiding me, isn’t it? It’s why you missed the meeting. You’ve been researching - and you _found_ something.”

They’re about a foot away from each other and Jim’s filled with an energy he hasn’t felt in days. Spock takes a half step back to try and regain his preferred measure of personal space - not to mention some measure of control over the conversation.

“The Vulcan biologists gave me their research and findings on the fetus and I did, indeed, discover the ailment. It seems that, whilst a half-Vulcan child carried by a human mother can survive, Vulcan mothers do not possess the necessary hormones that a half- _human_ child requires for healthy development. As the artificial wombs are modelled on those belonging to Vulcans, the facility on New Vulcan does not have the necessary-”

“On New Vulcan they don’t have it. But somewhere else might have it. _We_ could have it, right here on this ship.” Spock’s face goes completely blank. He might as well have lit up a flashing neon sign. _Got it in one._ “We do, don’t we?”

“Captain, I need not remind you that we are en route to the Omega Sixteen conference and are due there in twelve point four solar days. A detour of the sort you are suggesting would-”

“Spock.” Jim takes the final step to bridge the gap between them and grasps him by the shoulders. “Can you forget what’s logical for one  _second_? Isn’t it at least worth a  _try_?”

“Your favourite human phrase,” Spock replies, with even less colour than usual. “A shot in the dark?”

“It’s more than that. It’s not giving up when you haven’t tried everything. Just - don’t be logical, just for a second. We could stop off at New Vulcan, a brief detour - OK, maybe not super brief, but not _terrible_ \- from the Omega Sixteen conference, and deliver what’s necessary. It’s the right thing to do.”

“I am not certain that is the correct course of action-” Spock begins.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to be certain. _I_ am.” Jim’s hands are still gripping Spock’s shoulders and Spock’s allowing it, even though the combination of touch and their telepathic link has to be an onslaught on his senses. Jim gives him a squeeze, a helpless pat - but not so helpless as he has been the past few days. There’s a goal. There’s an explanation. There’s something they can do, even if that something doesn’t have specific parameters, it’s _defined_ by an unknown variable: _to try_. “Good thing I’m captain, right?”

Spock glances at Jim’s hand, sideways and down, his knuckles ridged over Spock’s shoulder. “Indeed,” he says at last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to personally apologise to any biologists reading this for the pseudo-science mess in this chapter...

_*_

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.27. Situation with First Officer Spock has been resolved, thank God. Taking a short detour on the way to Omega Sixteen via New Vulcan to drop off urgent medical supplies. It’ll make us a few days late, but I think Starfleet can sacrifice a little pomp and circumstance for the sake of saving lives._

_Well, life._

_A baby’s life._

_And a baby’s life is worth more than a politician’s pride, isn’t it? Even if the baby isn’t even born yet._ _This is Spock’s kid for god’s sake._

_What counts as ‘alive’, though? I sure as hell don’t know. Can anyone really know? I mean, people have been debating it for centuries but here and now...I don’t know if it matters. God, someone could call me out on this but if there’s anything I’m certain about it’s Spock and he’s in pain. He would do anything, and has done so much to keep me from suffering. Even if saving this kid isn’t logical it’s the right thing to do. Right?_

_Right?_

_No, no, this is definitely the right thing to do._

*

Bones opens his mouth, then closes it. He drums his fingers on his desk for a few seconds, then looks up sharply. “All right, you’ve got me. What exactly do you need ‘em for?”

Jim glances at Spock, wishing they’d planned this conversation more thoroughly beforehand. Better to keep it simple and sweet. Pander to Bones’ sensitive side. “Vulcan babies,” he says decisively.

“Vulcan babies,” Bones repeats, deadpan. “Right, then. Well, my knowledge of Vulcan gestation isn’t _exactly_ encyclopedic like _some_ -” He jabs his thumb at Spock, “You lot are really  _illogically_ secretive about your health issues, you know that? - but I  _do_ know enough to know that Vulcan babies don’t  _need_ that hormone. Fess up, Jim. What’s really goin’ on?”

“Well, that’s the-” Jim begins.

“This baby is half human,” Spock cuts in calmly.

Bones’ eyes bulge and Jim tries to explain before he can jump to any crazy conclusions. “It’s not what you think! It really, really isn’t.”

“Last I checked, _he’s_ the telepath round here, Jim, not you.” Bones, somehow, has long since mastered the art of the Vulcan eyebrow raise. It’s unfair that Jim’s the only one who hasn’t been able to pull it off. And not for lack of trying. With him, it’s both eyebrows or neither, he can’t manage just one. “So you don’t know _what_ I’m thinkin’.”

“Yeah, Bones, maybe not to the letter-but I know _you_ ,” Jim says, “And I know how much you like your gossip. Like an old maid with lemonade or-” He needs to leave the metaphors to Bones for now. Or forever. “Look, the point is, it’s a baby’s life that’s in danger, and we can fix that. If we don’t, it’ll die.”

“You might be able to tug at _my_ heartstrings with a story like that, Jim, but Starfleet,” Bones reminds him, “Isn’t always about the milk of human kindness over followin’ orders.”

“I had attempted to share that particular piece of logic with the captain myself,” Spock says. “I was not successful.”

Bones shudders dramatically, even for him. “Can’t fathom how many more times we’ll agree with one another on this five year mission, Spock, but every time it’s like the first time all over again.”

“The sentiment is shared, doctor.”

It’s almost like everything’s normal. It’s _almost_ like they’re not defying orders to save Spock’s test-tube baby.

“Anyway, we’re doing it,” Jim concludes in his best Captain voice. “And that’s an order.”

“Wait just a second here, Jim.” Bones’ jaw sets and his eyes darken. It’s his Very Serious Doctor Face, something Jim hasn’t seen since his recovery. “If I’m understandin’ what little you two have _deigned_ to tell me right, that means there’s a Vulcan baby-makin’ machine out there on that planet, and you want me to just hand over my supplies and waltz off? Hell no! If you want me involved in this, then you can bet your boots we’ll be makin’ a _proper_ pit-stop. Meanin’ _I’m_ going down there to supervise. As far as I see it, that baby is half  _human_ , so it’ll be half  _my_ patient, too.”

Spock’s mouth twitches. “Doctor, I assure you, the scientists on New Vulcan are quite capable-”

“Look, Spock, if these fantastic scientists of yours on New Vulcan actually _were_ capable of tendin’ to a half human life, then you wouldn’t be here askin’ for _my_ help, now would you?”

“You know,” Jim says, “He’s got a point, Spock.”

“One that is made emotionally, and therefore illogically,” Spock replies.  

Bones sighs and runs a hand agitatedly around his jaw, rearranging the worry lines. After a few seconds of silence, he looks up again, the darkness in his eyes no longer determination, but a touch of sadness. “You wanna know why I’m so  _emotional_ and stubborn about this, Spock?” He turns away from them, staring at something Jim can’t see. He tries, but it’s not in the room with them. “It’s because I’ve seen scientists - brilliant people, the finest minds Earth has to offer - try this before, with all the right intentions, with hope and bravery, and I’ve _also_ seen ‘em get it wrong. It ain’t pretty when it goes haywire. So I guess you could say it’s a matter of professional integrity.” Bones takes a deep breath and raises an eyebrow. “All in or all out, Mister Spock. What’s it gonna be?”

“I will defer to the Captain’s judgement,” Spock shows no sign of being affected by Bones’ impassioned speech, but Jim knows better. “Captain,” Spock adds, with a brusque nod.

“Words I love to hear, Mister Spock, but you already know my answer,” Jim says.

“Indeed.” Spock waits the prerequisite moment before Jim gestures that he’s dismissed. “I will inform the bridge of our new destination.”

“I sure as hell hope you know what you’re gettin’ us into, Jim,” Bones mutters - but when he meets Jim’s eyes, Jim doesn’t need a telepathic connection to know he’s all for it. It won’t stop him from grumbling the whole way to New Vulcan, of course, but it’s that familiar, friendly sort of complaining.

“Do I ever, Bones?” Jim replies.

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.32. This is Captain Kirk of the Starship_ Enterprise _._

_...Man, I’m still not tired of saying that._

_Right. Where was I?_

_We’ll be arriving at New Vulcan in just a few hours. No talk of mutiny yet. The crew, as always, is ready for whatever comes their way._

_Put in a couple of calls, in the meantime, and even worked a few angles. Had an ambassador on New Vulcan I happened to do a few favours for a while back put in the official request for our presence in to Starfleet and Bones hasn’t blown anything vital._

_All in all, this crazy plan might just work._

*

Jim steps off the shuttle and crunches onto the sand of New Vulcan, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare of the morning sun. He can hear Bones’ grumbling as he hauls his medical case down the ramp and he can sense that Spock is approaching him from behind and to the left. All of this leaves his mind, however, the moment he sees a familiar, lean figure walking towards them, long Vulcan robe trailing behind him, hands reaching up to tug down his hood.

Jim’s all energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s never been able to put a word to the strange friendship they share, but his heart shifts from its natural rhythm as the man approaches. It’s something about the way the old guy looks at him, the way his eyes light up, the complete and absolute trust he bestowed upon Jim from the very moment they met.

It should be scary having something as precious as that level of faith resting on his shoulders - but then again, doing scary things became Jim’s job when he wasn’t looking.

“Hey there, Ambassador Spock,” he calls, taking another few steps forwards and restraining the impulsive yet deep-rooted desire to throw an arm around the old Vulcan’s shoulders. “How’s it going?”

“Captain Kirk -” Ambassador Spock’s eyes soften in a way that Jim really hopes his Spock’s eyes will someday and he’s sure the old guy honest-to-goodness _smiles_ without even having to move his mouth. “ _Jim_. Thank you for coming.”

Jim flaps a hand, the heat already getting to him - the temperature of the planet combined with the warmth conveyed through the Ambassador's use of his name, “Eh, it’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Speak for yourself, _Captain_.” Bones hefts the case to a full stop beside them and he shoots it a glare, realising it’ll be twice as hard to get it moving again. “I’m the one that’s gonna be hangin’ out in a lab with nobody for assistance but the local hobgoblins.”

“Ah, Doctor McCoy.” Ambassador Spock’s expression doesn’t change; Jim doesn’t think it ever will. Without so much as a twitch of his muscles, the shadows on his face shift, and that’s what makes him look so pleased. “A pleasure, as always, to see you as well.”

Bones squints at him suspiciously, but it’s the same old story. He always gets this look when he’s dealing with Spock. Any Spock. As many of them as there are out there.

Jim tries not to think about that.

“Well, _anyway_ ,” Bones continues, coughing up some of the sand with a grimace, “Are we gonna spend our precious time lollygaggin’ around on the second-hottest planet the galaxy’s ever seen, or are we gonna save a life?”

“That,” Ambassador Spock replies, “Relies entirely upon your efforts here. However, given your record, Doctor McCoy, I cannot imagine that the life in question could be in better hands.”

It’s something the younger version doesn’t have down pat yet, an ease of conversation - or the wisdom of old age that says difficult individuals like Bones need a little buttering up to squeak by, logic be damned. Jim rubs the sweaty centre of his chest, glancing over his shoulder at the younger version of the Vulcan in question.

Compared to Ambassador Spock, First Officer Spock is more inscrutable than ever. They might have a connection, but there’s something about the situation that’s got Spock drifting. The connection itself forcing Spock to be more focused on his barriers than ever, actively working to keep them up, to keep Jim out.

Ambassador Spock leads them towards a small shuttlecraft, squat but sleek. It’s one of the new prototypes specially designed to cope with whatever a desert climate might throw at it. Jim wants to sit next to him up front, ask him more about how the re-colonization is going and soak up as much quiet, private Vulcan affection as possible while he can - it’s not like he’s getting much on the _Enterprise_ \- but by the time they reach the transport, Bones has Ambassador Spock deep in conversation about the facilities available to him at the lab-turned-hospital suite, so Jim squashes himself into the small space at the back, pressed from sweaty knee to shoulder with his first officer instead.

It’s pretty awkward, to say the least.

Jim closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on the connection between their minds. Spock is tense and it’s bleeding over to Jim, so he’d like to allay it, but he’s got no idea what to say; projecting some sort of emotional reassurance is the only option available. The link is still there, a faint throb in the back of his consciousness, though fainter than ever, and fierce stab of regret hits him at the realisation that Spock’s prediction is coming true.

Their connection is fading. It won’t be there soon.

As weird as the whole experience has been - and it’s been weird as hell - the truth is, he’s grown used to it. Not to mention that there’s a certain amount of comfort in knowing, for sure, that Spock’s always there with him.

He opens his eyes to find Spock watching him. He looks away first because of _course_ he looks away first. Jim swallows, watching the desert speed by, sweat soaking his shirt at the small of his back. 

The sooner the connection fades, the better. The way it is now isn’t fair on either of them.

The domed rooftops of the newly constructed science buildings rise over the dunes, glittering in the sunlight. Jim has to shield his eyes and Bones whistles. At least Bones is sweating, too, although he hasn’t complained about it yet.

Some things are more important than personal comfort.

“This way,” Ambassador Spock says.

“Hey,” Jim falls back, letting the old guy and Bones go on ahead. It’s not exactly private - Vulcan hearing’s keen as always - but it’ll have to work. “You doing okay, Spock?”

“My medical records were updated prior to the beam-down, Captain, as were yours. If my health had at any point been in question, I would have been restricted from accompanying you and Doctor McCoy.”

“Yeah, I know, your health’s fine, Spock,” Jim says. “That’s not what I was asking about and you know it.”

“Your lack of specificity allows for multiple interpretations,” Spock replies. “I would not presume to know your particular meaning.”

“This is your kid, Spock. All I know is, if it was me, I’d be…” Jim searches for the right word. Spock’s not gonna like it. “... _feeling_. Feeling a lot of things.”

“I will be more than capable of performing whatever duties are required of me,” Spock says. “I will not behave in any way that will reflect poorly upon the _Enterprise_ or your captaincy.”

“That wasn’t what I was talking about, either.”

“I had not considered the possibility of being a father, nor do I feel it appropriate to accept that role, as I have merely donated the genetic material. Presumably the child would have been fostered by two Vulcan parents, as would be most logical.”

Jim heaves a sigh and tries a different tack. “Can you still feel it? In your mind, I mean.”

“I can, yes, though it is fainter now. I believe the fetus does not have a significant chance of survival.” Spock’s voice is as level and calm as when he’s reading off the scanner, the very picture of Vulcan stoicism. Jim sincerely hopes that it’s just a facade because he sure as hell can’t tell through the link anymore.

“How does that stuff work, anyway? Don’t you have to…” Jim gestures to the side of his face, then makes a dramatic, splayed-fingered shape with his other hand and slowly brings it towards his cheek. “...for that to work?”

It probably looks more like a scene out of a vintage sci-fi horror movie than what he’s going for, but he knows Spock is used to translating his weird gestures by now. And Spock’s definitely understood him - although, judging by the look in his eyes, he’s considering deliberately misconstruing Jim’s meaning on principle.

“For an effective link to be established, yes, physical contact is necessary. However, even the youngest Vulcan has an instinctive telepathic sense. Before the days of Surak’s reformation, the culture of Vulcan was fraught with violence and danger; naturally, the infants that survived were those with the most effective ability to project their needs and the strongest bonds with their parents. I would require further research to explain statistically, but from the point a Vulcan fetus gains consciousness within the womb, they are capable of the most basic communication with their closest biological kin. Until their mind develops more significantly, of course, it is nothing more than a vague transmission of emotional and physical requirements.”

“So that’s what you’re feeling - this kid reaching out to you?” Jim has to remind himself to breathe. “ _Jesus_ , Spock, that’s crazy. Can you feel it’s pain? Is that why-”

“It is not something I intend to allow to affect my duties as your first officer,” Spock says. Like it’s really that simple. Like it’s not the most complicated, painful idea Jim’s ever heard.

And Jim _died_ once. It took months, but he was finally able to admit in the privacy of medbay with Bones re-checking his charts that yeah, it was more terrifying than he could ever put into words.

But a kid...

A line of sweat, surprisingly cool, breaks free from the nape of Jim’s neck, disappearing down his collar.

“The temperature will be regulated within the complexes,” Spock adds. “Though they will be calibrated for Vulcan preferences rather than human, they will be somewhat more comfortable for you as well, Captain.”

A kid, crying out for help to the one person who can hear them.

Jim wipes the sweat off the back of his neck and follows Spock inside.

*

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.33. Kirk here. You ever heard of Hepcidin?_

_Cause I haven’t. Hadn’t until today, anyway. And I helped Bones study for his exams two years straight. He won’t admit to it, but I provided the practice he needed while he was studying to get the highest score in his medical practical - after dealing with me, keeping a cool head in a simulated emergency was easy._

_Anyway...Hepcidin. Hormone needed in early development stages to regulate iron levels in the blood._

_Vulcan blood is copper-based._

_Spock’s half-human; he's got green Vulcan blood himself, but when his DNA was used something got complicated and the fetus somehow wound up with a recessive human gene Spock was carrying that, uh, science jargon yadda yadda science jargon, means the kid has good ol’ illogical iron-based blood, not the copper blood they were expecting._

_Anyway, side effects are chronic heart failure and hemochromatosis. Bones says it’s lucky she - it’s a she, apparently_ \- _survived as long as she did._

_Some kids are just survivors. But sometimes, they need a little help surviving._

*

Jim finally gets to have a real chat with Ambassador Spock that evening, though it’s not as brilliant and soul-soothing as he’d hoped, since he’s still freaking out. And he has been ever since his conversation with Spock; ever since he walked the cold floors of the natal wing and saw, for the first time, the tiny little thing immersed in the tub of what, quite frankly, looked like Gorn brains; ever since he watched the Vulcan scientists on duty poke at it - at _her_ \- with Spock watching them, his face as impassive as theirs and terrifyingly detached.

Not even Bones’ grouching was enough to wrench Spock out of it. He remained in the lab long after Jim started swaying and was ‘advisably escorted’ to the canteen to rehydrate. It wasn’t until four hours later that Bones turned up at their guest lodgings, barging into Jim’s room to complain loudly about _Goddamn heartless Vulcan robots_.

At least some things would never change.

“And the baby?” Jim asked.

Bones quieted at once, a sure sign of nothing good, to deliver the news. “Honestly, Jim? It’s still touch and go right now. The Hepcidin is only a temporary solution, really, but at least, for the time being, she’s not gettin’ any  _worse._ I don’t know, if I’m honest. It’s a complicated business, and if we go too much further we’re edgin’ onto a damn slippery slope. T’Penna has some gene therapy theories that we’re gonna explore tomorrow, and that’s our next best bet.”

They shared a moment of silence before Bones retreated to his quarters for a desperately needed shower. Jim plans on telling him that he fully intended to try and get some sleep at that point, but the polite knock and the Ambassador inviting him on a walk was something he knew he needed.

It’s cooler on New Vulcan at night, the sun slipping below the uneven horizon.

“You and your Spock share a mental link, do you not?” Ambassador Spock begins, thoroughly nonchalant, as they walk side by side in the complex’s open garden.

Jim snorts, “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“Ah - a phrase I have not heard for quite some time. To beat around the bush.” Ambassador Spock turns to observe the mountains in the distance, little more than shadows against the starry sky. If he’s nostalgic then it’s an unusual thing to be nostalgic about. “I have never beaten around bushes in my time, Jim, but now, more than ever, I am certain that postponing the important topics of discussion is foolish at best.”

“Yeah, well, wisdom of experience and all that.” Jim pushes his hand through his hair, letting the cooling night breeze do more for his mood than any of Bones’ hypos. “I’ll take your word for it. Yeah, we- It’s a long story.”

“It appears it will be a long night,” Ambassador Spock says.

“Got hit by this poison flower, pushed Spock out of the way, got it square in the chest myself, nearly compromised the mission. Believe me, I didn’t hear the end of it for _weeks_ after I woke up. Bones says I would’ve died - _again_  - if it wasn’t for Spock’s interference.”

“Fascinating,” Ambassador Spock replies.

If only more people could be like him. Bones, for example. Or Jim’s first officer.

Jim rubs the back of his neck, shoulder muscles pinching with the strain. “Sure, that’s... Fascinating’s one way of putting it. I recovered, but Spock was in there for a while-” Jim taps his temple, “-and I guess it wasn’t so easy getting out again. Anyway, it’s not permanent. The effects are already fading.”

“You speak as though you are disappointed.”

“It is what it is,” Jim says.

Ambassador Spock is silent for long enough to study Jim’s face. It’s no mind-meld, but it probes deeper than most. “Jim, you are aware that while I have confided certain details in you, there are many things about the path that lies ahead of you which I cannot impart. I would, however, offer you some advice, if you would be amenable to it.”

Advice. Now that’s a new development. “Amenable, huh? Yeah, I’m amenable to it.”

Ambassador Spock nods. “I cannot pretend that this particular scenario ever occurred in my personal timeline, but my experiences were nonetheless not without incidents of emotional nature. Incidents which I would not have been able to navigate without the continued support of my captain.”

“I’m not gonna _leave_ him-” Jim begins.

“Ah.” Ambassador Spock smiles. It’s barely a shadow at the corners of his eyes but Jim can see it. “I believe that you must do more than that. I believe that you must not allow _him_  to leave  _you._ I know myself at that age and I know, too, that I had certain difficulties accepting even the most innocuous of feelings. It was only the continued acceptance - the encouragement and affection - of _my_ Jim Kirk that allowed me to accept my own humanity. He needs you now, more than ever.”

“I’m trying. Hell, I’m _always_ trying.” Jim’s throat feels tight and he has to swallow twice before he can continue. “But he keeps pushing me away. He’s totally blocked me off - you guys are _really_ good at that, by the way - and I  _want_ to help him, Spock, believe me. I do. That mind-link, it was one hell of a…”

Jim trails off, cheeks flushing. Ambassador Spock raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“...It was weird as hell,” Jim finishes finally. “But I think I... I mean, maybe we could have made it work, you know? Could’ve been an asset. Could’ve developed it, instead of letting it just…”

It doesn’t take a telepath - or an ancient Vulcan who’s seen multiple timelines - to know that Jim needs time to compose himself. When he looks up, Ambassador Spock’s eyes are almost twinkling.

“You are already different from the young man I met on Delta Vega, Jim.”

“Is that a good thing?” Jim sighs, lacing his fingers behind his head. At least he’s dealing with the one Vulcan he knows who understands how to cut a guy some slack.  

“There was never anything wrong with who you were, Jim - but now it merely seems that you are becoming more... _yourself_. To coin a phrase from the good doctor: you are settling into your own skin.”

Jim has no idea what to say to that. Vulcans don’t do compliments, not even the weird ones. He gulps and tries to let the warmth from the words seep into him. ”...Thanks. I think.”

“Perhaps the most obvious choice, in this instance, is the best course. You could always speak to him, difficult though he may be. I believe that he arrived at the facilities here an hour ago.”

“No specifics?” Jim manages a grin. “That’s not like you, Ambassador Spock.”

“Well,” Ambassador Spock replies, “sometimes, even very old Vulcans are capable of - what is the human idiom?” He glances away and up to the stars. Whatever he sees out there, Jim can’t fathom it. It’s something beyond mind-melds, beyond basic human sympathy. It’s a lifetime that doesn’t exist here; memories the only thing keeping it aflame. “Ah, yes, of course. Capable of learning new tricks.”

By Vulcan standards, it’s not the worst conversation that Jim could’ve had that night.

And by all standards, it sure beat talking to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes, when he’s tired or when he’s been hit in the head one too many times or when he’s suffering from heatstroke, Jim can see the old guy in Spock - but it never lasts. The moment Spock sees him, the illusion’s gone. Which is probably for the best.

It’s not _Ambassador_ Spock Jim wants to get close to tonight, anyway.

“Hey,” Jim says, leaning in the doorway to Spock’s room. It’s a spartan, utilitarian space, as all Vulcan buildings seem to be, and essentially identical to the one Jim’s staying in next door.

Spock looks up - and just like that, the illusion fades, the walls go up, and Jim feels a new kind of headache building behind the bridge of his nose. He pinches it briefly, then shakes it off. No reason to give Spock the opportunity to turn this conversation around on Jim before he can even really start it.

Spock inclines his head in his first officer’s nod. “Captain. How may I be of assistance?”

“Uh-uh,” Jim says. “Not tonight. You’re my first officer, Spock, but you’re also-” There’s that thing they haven’t discussed since...well, since _ever_ , “-my friend. So we’re gonna talk tonight the way friends talk. Not about assistance, but about _help_ , Spock.”

“The two words are synonymous,” Spock replies.

“Yeah. But there’s a difference in formality. Work with me here, Spock.”

Spock watches from his seat on the floor, cross-legged on another one of those elaborate meditation mats, as Jim walks into the room and plops down about six feet in front of him. Judging by the tension in his shoulders Spock can’t have gotten very far with his meditation. The space between them is deliberate, because there’s a hell of a lot of room between pushing and  _forcing_.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. Nothing ever goes unnoticed when Spock’s around. “How may I help you, Capta-”

“Oh my god, Spock - _Jim_. You know this. Come on.” Jim scoots a little closer so that when Spock looks up he can’t avoid him, can’t shut him out.

“How may I help you...Jim.”

Maybe the whole _Jim_ thing was a mistake; Jim’s breath actually catches in his throat. It’s not a question any more. It’s an affirmation - Spock saying,  _I am listening_.

“Well.” Jim clears his throat. So much sand on this damn planet. “That’s, uh, that’s a start, anyway. ...Right, okay. I’m gonna say some stuff, and if you can, I want you not to interrupt and maybe not say anything until I’m done. Is that cool?”

“That is acceptable.”

“Great.” Yeah, great. Jim rubs the back of his head, wondering where the hell to begin. “I need your help with this, because... Well, because I’m an emotional, illogical human being, and we emotional, illogical human beings require… affection and friendship in order to function sometimes. Human weakness, I know. It’s a pain, but there’s nothing Bones has on board to cure it, so for the time being... It is how it is.” Jim chuckles. Spock doesn’t. It’s the natural order of things, frustrating as that is. “Now, somehow, over the course of the last few years, you’ve become one of my closest friends, Spock. We’ve been over that already, so we don’t have to retread old ground or anything. But because of that, I know you well enough to know when there’s something wrong. And right now, something’s wrong. Now don’t start giving me that bullshit that you’re fine and dealing with it because, quite frankly, I’m sick of all that. If you were fine, you wouldn’t be acting so weird. You wouldn’t be…” Jim swallows. “You wouldn’t be pushing me away like this.”

Spock’s face is blank; his eyes are dark and deep. He takes it all in, but his problem - and, by extension, Jim’s problem - is that he doesn’t let it _out_ again.

“This is the part where you say something, Spock,” Jim adds. “Where you don’t leave me hanging.”

Spock purses his lips, always demanding Jim read between the lines. “I would not…‘leave you hanging’, Jim. Metaphorically or literally.”

Jim knows the latter’s true, at least.

“As a captain,” Jim says, “I can’t have my first officer bottling things up. And as a friend, I can’t have _you_ bottling things up. For different reasons. They’re _both_ pretty valid, as far as I’m concerned.” Jim rakes his fingers through his hair, not even thinking about what it’s doing in the desert heat. “Look, Spock, you’ve got this _kid_ -”

“Though I understand your human desire to associate the fetus with a sentient individual, to term it, in its current state, a child is inaccurate.”

Jim waves a hand. “Okay, okay. Fine. But whatever you say it is, it still called out to you. It’s still family. You’ve gotta feel something about that.” No - that’s not right. “You _do_ feel something, and in my opinion, it’s gonna be worse for you if you bottle it up.”

Spock’s eyebrow lifts. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“Trust me,” Jim says. “I know about family, all right?”

“I would not suggest that your knowledge on that subject is incomplete.”

“Hey,” Jim adds, swallowing around something thick in his throat, “if it’s...something you could share. We’ve still got that link going, right? It might be easier to just...do the thing, Spock.”

Genuine surprise registers on Spock’s face for a split second before it passes, and it’s probably why he doesn’t call Jim out on the ridiculous wording. “You wish to mind-meld again?”

Heat rushes to Jim’s cheeks; at least he’s got the weather to blame. He’ll never be a good diplomat at this rate. There’s no telling if asking someone to mind-meld without fair warning is a Vulcan faux-pas of the highest order. “I mean, if you don’t want to-”

“My desire is not in question on this matter. No, I merely assumed that you…” Something’s changed in Spock’s demeanour, something wound up _way_ too tight finally starting to budge. Jim tries not to read too much into it. “Forgive me, but your expressed opinion on the experience was ‘crazy weird shit’, and I have come to understand that such a term has highly negative connotations.”

Damn Vulcan memory, Jim thinks, “Huh? Yeah, all right. Fine. It was weird, absolutely, but not  _bad_ weird, just... _weird_ weird. Unusual. Uh. I’ve never experienced anything like it, which means I’ve got nothing to compare it to-”

“Additionally, when I explained that we would be capable of exchanging thoughts through this mental bond, your first reaction was one of...” Spock purses his lips, evidently having difficulty quantifying Jim’s weirdness. Jim can’t exactly blame him for that, “...Panic. I perceived you were emotionally distressed at the prospect of sharing-”

“Oh god, Spock, that doesn’t mean-” Jim presses a hand over his mouth and wonders how the hell he can explain to Spock that what he was panicking about was the prospect of his first officer accidentally having front row seats to Jim’s opinion on his ass when he bends over his scanner at the bridge science station without mentioning anything about his ass. “Spock,” Jim says, then takes a deep breath, “That was a… _me_ thing. That was nothing about you. I was freaking out because I thought that I would freak _you_ out with my stupid illogical head. If you’re good with hearing my weird human thoughts, then I’m good with hearing your Vulcan ones.”

Spock gives him a long look, then apparently decides to believe him. “May I inquire as to what, exactly, you seek to achieve from rejuvenating our mental link?”

Jim squirms. “Sharing, I guess? A friend’s already somebody who knows you’re not perfect and can help, sort of, balance out whatever you’re lacking.” He moves on quickly before he says anything that sounds too much like  _completing each other_. “This whole situation is difficult, to say the least. And honestly, I think this’d help - a problem shared is a problem halved or whatever.”

“As someone more experienced in these matters, I shall defer to your judgment, Jim,” Spock replies, after a few seconds of stomach-churning silence. “However, you must be aware of the fact that a second meld would make our mental connection considerably stronger; likewise, it will take far longer for it to dissipate naturally. As I had previously shielded your mind in order to honour your privacy, as you requested, I believe a second meld will reduce the efficacy of such shields. If at any point in the future this link ceases to be beneficial to you, you need only ask for it to be severed and I can discuss an appointment with a Vulcan psionic healer.”

Jim gulps, nods, and tries not to think too loudly because right now he doesn’t trust his reaction to the notion of forever.

“It’s cool,” Jim says. _Cool_. Like that even encompasses it, Jim thinks, cringing. God, what’s wrong with him? “I mean, not _cool_. It’s the best option we’ve got, we already know my head didn’t explode the first time,” Jim knocks the side with his knuckles. Spock regards him with that look he gets whenever he’s contemplating reporting Jim’s erratic behaviour to Bones. “But that doesn’t take into account where _you_ stand on the matter, Spock.”

“You ask as my friend, rather than command me as my captain. I understand that, Jim.”

“Oh.” Some days, Spock gets caught up on Jim’s human eccentricities; some days, he figures things out so fast Jim practically gets whiplash. “Yeah.”

“As such - as your friend - I accept the offer, with the provision that, should it provide unforeseen difficulties, you will accept that I do not intend to hesitate in preventing any further complications.”

“Got it. Understood, Spock. As your friend _and_ as your captain. Besides,” Jim adds, working out a crooked grin, “I was unconscious the last time you did this thing, I didn’t get to see what it’s like. It’s not like I could get a straight answer out of Bones, either. Every time I brought the damn thing up the vein in his temple started throbbing and I had to let it drop for the sake of _his_ health. Somebody’s gotta look after him.”

“A humorous anecdote,” Spock says, “Perhaps intended to lighten the gravity of the mood.”

“OK, Spock, yeah, that’s a little _too_ insightful. Maybe it’s time to stop letting people know just how obvious they are.”

“In the near future, after we have re-initiated the link, your definition of obvious will undoubtedly change.”

“C’mon, Spock, I can handle it.”

“There is little you have proven yourself unable to handle, Jim.” Spock pauses, then lifts his hand slowly to the side of Jim’s face. No time to overthink it.

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment,” Jim says, as Spock’s fingertips alight on his cheek and jaw. “Aren’t those supposed to be illogical?”

“Perhaps you, too, should avoid pointing out the obvious in the future,” Spock replies.

Jim opens his mouth to reply with a sarcastic comment - make that _a humorous anecdote to lighten the gravity of the situation_ \- but his breath catches in this throat when Spock's fingertips press more firmly against his skin. He tries to ignore exactly how close their faces are, that he can count every one of Spock’s eyelashes and feel his warm breath against his skin. He closes his eyes and concentrates. The touch exerted by Spock’s fingers is warm against his cheek.

There’s a push against his mind, too. A suggestion; the most careful application of pressure. It’s a presence, a notion that he knows is Spock, like a knock on a door. Asking permission.

Jim thinks,  _Yes_ , and then-

It’s not like it was with Ambassador Spock, Jim’s only point of reference, which was an outright tidal wave of images and sensations. As much information in as little time as possible: the closest a Vulcan comes to desperation.

No, this is a controlled jetstream of ordered, structured thoughts. He isn’t immersed, he’s simply presented with that-which-is-Spock in a manner that suggests he’s being eased into the whole experience gently.

 _Hey there_ , he thinks vaguely in a direction he hopes is where that presence is coming from.

 _Jim, it may benefit you to interpret my mental presence as my physical form. It is an exercise taught to Vulcan children during their first telepathic encounters._  

 _Gee, thanks._ Jim tries to convey a sense of simultaneous embarrassment and amusement and thinks that, if he’s ‘reading’ the situation correctly, he can feel a faint ripple of amusement back - what, on a human, might translate into a physical smile. Jim tries to imagine it.

It comes, but it’s not easy.

When it does, they're standing together, side by side, in a vast space.

_Additionally, you do not have to think in coherent sentences. I see all you see, feel all you feel, as you will see all I see and feel all I feel. If it proves easier for you to communicate by projecting an abstract notion, an object or an image that represents the meaning you wish to convey, feel free to do so._

Spock’s voice isn’t audible. Jim can’t hear it and he can’t see the words in front of him, but it  _feels_ deep and calm and measured. In fact, it feels like everything Jim associates with Spock, a thought that makes him grin.

Spock - the Spock Jim has conjured - raises an eyebrow and Jim shakes his head, waving a hand to indicate that it doesn’t matter. Spock was right. This helps. Jim always has been more physical so being able to communicate in gestures is definitely more natural.

It makes sense, at least, which is a relief as this whole experience _shouldn’t_. Except Jim’s been here before - sort of - and he can almost believe himself when he thinks he remembers Spock with him like this once before. Guiding him out of the dark. Taking over his pain.

He’d better start conversing soon, or Spock’s going to find out a lot more than he bargained for when he agreed to the meld.

_You’re pretty good at this, Spock. Done a lot of these before?_

Spock’s slight amusement at the suggestion doesn’t imply offense, not necessarily. _I would not engage in such an important act lightly, Jim._

_You call me Jim in here, huh?_

_In here, you are not only my captain._

Spock’s response makes Jim feel warm all over; knowing Spock can sense that warmth makes him even warmer.

 _It’s not about me, anyway._ Jim gets that across with a few more waves of his hand and an emphatic finger pointed in Spock’s direction to remind them of their objective. They could get lost like this, or Jim could get lost like this, as much a part of someone else as he’s ever been a part of himself.

That’s a dangerous, comforting, incredible thought.

_This is about you, Spock. And what you’re holding back._

_I would not share the extent of it with you upon this first joining, Jim. That would be careless and unwise._

_Gotta build me up slow, huh?_

_Though I would not have phrased it in such a fashion, that is, I believe, the general idea._

_So formal even in my brain, Spock?_

It occurs to Jim that it’ll probably be as difficult for Spock to let his guard down as it will be for Jim to take the depth of his Vulcan emotions in on the other end.

Jim holds out his hand.

Spock regards the outstretched hand for a few moments before he takes it in one smooth, decisive movement. The contact is warm and solid and sends a sharp, though not unpleasant, electric frisson up Jim’s arm. 

_What the hell was that?_

He feels a flash of heat, quickly smothered and knows instinctively that it is embarrassment.

_Wait, Spock - are you blushing?_

Jim wriggles his fingers; another pulse of heat.

_Vulcan hands are...sensitive, Jim._

The phrase ‘erogenous zone’ enters Spock’s mind, a projected notion that Spock can't quite bring himself to put into words but his brain translates for him anyway.  

 _Oh my God, Spock_ \- _you've gotta tell me if I make you uncomfortable like this!_

Jim tries to snatch his hand away but Spock's fingers, which were limp a second ago, quickly tighten their hold.

_It was an illogical reaction; although they resemble them, these manifestations are not our physical bodies, and as such I have no nerve endings in the hand you now hold to be stimulated. As I understand that hand holding is a human social interaction that will both aid you in being more comfortable in this exploration and ensure that you are not lost within the physical area you have designated as my mind, I can assure you: you are not making me uncomfortable, Jim._

_You sure? You promise to tell me if I do, or if I do anything else that’s not okay?_

_I promise._

Vulcans don’t lie, Jim reminds himself. Besides even if they did, he thinks he’d be able to tell in here.

_Your mind, then? How exactly do we do this?_

_Focus on me_.

And so Jim does.

They don’t actually move; there’s only the sensation of movement. Which opens up a nice metaphysical can of worms for Jim to think about later.

Because the moment Jim feels like they’re moving, they’re already there. Somewhere that was waiting for them. Somewhere that blinked into being.

A room.  

Shelves, old-fashioned honest-to-God  _book_ shelves, part of a library that stretches into the distance without end, each row perfectly ordered and carefully structured, the space between light and airy but still warm. It reminds Jim of the traditional book section of the Academy library back in San Francisco - and immediately huge leather sofas and spacious desks spring up around them, emulating the memory.

 _Is this...?_  

 _This is your mind interpreting what you see of mine in terms of a physical space with which you are familiar._ Spock examines one of the lamps on a desk nearby. ... _Fascinating._

Jim gives a low whistle. _OK, it’s huge. But still kind of...cozy. Welcoming. I like it. You know, I could get used to hanging out here._

The warmth and pleased surprise emanating from Spock makes his heart beat faster. Even if it’s not really his heart, just the idea of the thing - the heart you give away when you get too close to someone or something. 

_I am glad, Jim._

_Hey, I wonder..._ Jim reaches for a book with his free hand, thumbing the lettering on the spine. He thinks he can feel it, the rough snare of a cracked binding, with the promise that the book’s been well-read, not to mention deeply enjoyed. _Huh._

_I sense...interest, but also surprise._

_That’s about right, I guess._ Jim isn’t sure how to put it into words - but he’s less sure of how to put it into a feeling, one transmittable as anything other than pure confusion. _Antique books_ \- _you know, the old kind with the bindings and the pages like this. There’s just something about ‘em. Call me old-fashioned or outdated or whatever, but I used to study with these whenever I could._

 _You have a preference for them._ Spock’s understanding of something so subjective is distant. Not cold, but thoughtful, more than a natural instinct. It’s learned. It’s something Spock’s had to teach himself.

Jim isn’t sure how he picks up on that. He just knows it.

He could get used to just knowing things.

 _Yeah, Spock. I guess you could say that. Never could figure out why. They’re practically artifacts now, but rolling through those stacks back in the library when I was a cadet...I don’t know. Made me feel like I was really there, more than when I was crouching over a terminal._ Jim pauses. His hand’s still on the book. _Can I...?_

_If you wish to read it._

Jim doesn’t hesitate, but his motions are heavy, weighted by the action’s importance. This book could have the answers he’s looking for. He could crack it open and never unlearn the things about Spock that are held within.

 _Thanks, Spock._ Jim slides it off the shelf, and opens it against his chest.

The pages fall apart to the middle, words in tricky Vulcan script. They shimmer, faintly, with anguish. Loss. Pain.

Jim can’t help but be disappointed.  _Man, Spock, I can’t read Vulcan._

 _Jim,_  Gentle amusement wafts towards him from Spock’s direction. _You forget that this is not a real book; this is merely an interface your mind has created in order to interact with and gain information from mine. The language will be whatever you perceive it to be, the subject whatever you are looking for._

Jim’s cheeks heat up. Or his interface heats up. Whatever it is, it’s embarrassed.  _Right. That makes a hell of a lot more sense, yeah._

Sure enough, the words on the pages before him twist and contort themselves into something that resembles Standard - though reading them is less like reading specific words and more like accessing snippets of memories, nouns and verbs unlocking short-frame memory loops. It’s a concept Jim can’t get his head around exactly but it is effective for absorbing information.

Jim tugs Spock to one of the huge leather sofas and sinks down into it. They’re pressed together from shoulder to knee - and if Jim’s thoughts betray the notion that the position he’s instinctively chosen has to do with anything other than balancing the book across their laps so they can both read it easily, then Spock doesn’t seem to mind.

The first page is about Spock’s father, Sarek. It doesn’t have a title or a holo and it doesn’t even mention his name, but Jim knows who it’s about because Spock knows. He has the sense of a figure, tall and imposing, strict, solemn, with a lack of warmth that doesn’t necessarily imply coldness, just logic. Above all, logic. And under that, an answering echo, follows a lingering, hot vein of embarrassment, frustration, the desperate and illogical need to impress - or at least to inspire a reaction.

Disapproval over fistfights.

A nod of acknowledgement over academic results.

A glimmer of understanding and hope.

The silence that follows. Neither negative nor positive. Itchy. Unresolved.

_So this is...what, a book about your family?_

_It is a collection of information and memories accumulated to inform you about the bonds I have formed in my life. That is what you were looking for, is it not?_

_Right, okay. Sort of like a mental holo-album?_

_Your phrasing is imprecise but essentially correct._

Even inside his head, Spock’s technical to a fault.

Jim turns to the next page. There, instant and unbridled, follows the overwhelming force of acceptance. He turns them into words to process them, but they’re all feelings, all of them strong: _warm_  and  _gentle_  and  _kind_ and _love_ , so much  _love_. Arms around his shoulders and laughter and soft words and foolish, sentimental, make-it-better kisses; pride and belief and sadness, sadness without end.

Jim knows that sadness.

He gasps and chokes on it until he manages to recover from its intensity. Spock begins to apologise, but he shakes his head emphatically.  _No, Spock, I...that was your mom, wasn’t it?_

Spock simply nods.

 _Thank you for showing me. Wish I could’ve met her. She sounds pretty amazing._ He squeezes Spock’s hand.

Spock squeezes back. _She was._

Jim isn’t sure how long he lingers there, lost in the eddies and currents of a feeling which is somehow incredibly complex yet also simple in it's power. It threatens to drown him. At last, he moves on.

The next page is a cold and clinical description of a young woman, which somehow manages to convey how brilliant and talented and superior she is with an almost calculated lack of sentiment.  _Who’s this? Your first crush or something?_

_I would not say I ever had sufficient regard towards her to consider her a ‘crush’ in human terms. She was my intended. We were betrothed as children. She perished during the destruction of Vulcan. Her name was T’Pring._

Jim gulps.  _I’m sorry._

_Do not be. We were never close. I mourned her passing as I mourned that of every Vulcan who passed that day._

The detachment in Spock’s tone is as vast as the sweeping, ochre sands Jim never got to know for himself. He hasn’t thought about it, not much, not beyond the abstract - but the next page is heat and sunlight, nights without a moon, stars in the sweeping, black canvas of the sky, measurements and distances and study defining their relationships, their gravitational pull, each to burning each. It’s long walks through the desert alone; it’s a mountain peak enjoyed alone; it’s a perspective on distant houses, shadowy and serene, forged by being alone. It’s the heat on skin alone, observing a desert beast scurrying between sand dunes alone, returning home alone. Loneliness, an uncounted, unmeasured loneliness, startling for its lack of specific dimensions.

It just is.

And it’s everywhere.

Jim’s hand tightens on Spock’s. No wonder he’s so removed. There’s nobody like him; there never was while he was young and looking for something, anything that might be familiar to him. Even with the hours Jim used to spend staring up at the sky and feeling lonelier than a fallen tree torn up by its roots, at least there were pieces of himself he recognised in others-even if those pieces were fabricated from memories of a father he never got to have.

_Jesus, Spock._

_It simply was,_ Spock replies. His voice cuts through that emptiness like a cool night breeze furrowing the sand. Hints of that maternal warmth follow, brief oases in an otherwise barren land.

_Still, it must’ve been..._

_Lonely. Perhaps it was. I do not regret it. Kaiidth: what is, is._

It’s starting to come into focus, to make sense, even if that sense is fragmented and scattered, like independent grains of sand separated from one another instead of brought together to form the familiar desert landscape. The loneliness that shapes each empty space Spock leaves behind when he leaves, and the knowledge that the same loneliness might be shared by another child of two worlds.

By _his_ child.

The shiver that runs down Jim’s spine is half his and half Spock’s. It’s hope and fear at the same time. Logically, Spock can’t wish for the same unique burden to be placed on a baby’s small shoulders, but logic isn’t all there is.

And Spock knows that. Whatever doubts Jim might’ve had about that before, they’re gone now. He’d be more than an idiot not to see it - he’d have to be blind.

 _Spock_ , Jim breathes, and realises he has no idea what else to say. Instead, he closes the book with a solid thump, setting it aside. He takes Spock’s hand in both of his - noting the flush of surprise between them, but sensing no particular desire on Spock’s part to move away - and focuses on transmitting everything he can that might convey a single concept:  _not-alone_.

_That’s what friendship means, Spock. It means you never have to face anything alone again, not if you don’t want to. Whatever you need, I’ve got your back. I’m here._

Sure, it’s kind of corny, and probably well past the boundaries of what’s platonically acceptable - but at this point, Jim doesn’t really care. Spock needs him; Spock’s let him in. And Jim’s damn well going to do what he can to help.

Except he’s not totally sure what he’s getting from Spock. It’s nothing negative, nothing more than a sense of being vaguely overwhelmed and maybe, if Jim’s reading him right, a little choked up.

 _Thank you, Jim_.

It’s no more than a whisper. Choked up is about right, then. Jim _is_ reading Spock correctly. He releases Spock’s hands and they both lean back; Spock’s far away somewhere, more distracted than withdrawn.

_You, uh, need some time on your own to digest all that, Spock?_

_I...require meditation, yes._

_Okay, cool. That’s cool._ Jim tries to bury whatever complicated bullshit he’s feeling at the idea of them disengaging the meld. It’s all felt so real that he still has to remind himself that it’s nothing more than a projection.  _How do we, uh, leave?_

Spock looks at him very intently, but his face grows fuzzy around the ages, fading gently, the library around them slipping away book by book, each a puzzle piece, dissipating into darkness. Jim holds his breath and refuses to panic - hey, he’s been through darker places than this, and he’s been there alone - and sure enough, after a few seconds of disorientation, he can feel fingers lifting slowly away from his face, followed by the solid floor beneath him.

He opens his eyes. Spock is already standing and moving away. The tickling presence is still there in the back of his mind but it’s fainter now. Shielded.

“Man,” Jim eases his legs out from under him and hoists himself to his feet. “ _Damn_. How long were we doing that for? My butt’s gone to sleep and I’ve got pins and needles from the waist down.”

Spock doesn’t turn around, rummaging through a drawer to produce several candles that he begins to arrange on top of the dresser. “Two hours and thirteen minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”

“ _Two_ -? Shit, time flies when you’re wandering in a mind library, huh?”

Spock doesn’t respond. Jim bites his lip.

“Hey. Spock. You okay over there?”

Finally, Spock turns. “I am well, Jim. But I require meditation to, as you said, ‘digest’ what we have discussed. I believe your plans for tomorrow morning are to visit the ship?”

Jim nods. “Yeah, I’ve got some paperwork to sort out, but I should be dirtside again by lunch.”

“I will continue to aid Doctor McCoy and the Vulcan scientists in the facility.” Spock’s face softens, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of deal. But Jim’s looking. Jim’s been looking for more than a year now. “You have had a long day. You should sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bones’d agree with you, I’m sure - and that should tell you something.”

Spock’s eyebrow rises. “That the doctor is, on occasion, correct in both his diagnosis and his prescription?”

Jim chuckles weakly. “Don’t let him hear you say that, Spock. Good thing he doesn’t have Vulcan ears, right?”

“For more reasons than one,” Spock agrees.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (once again, apologies to any biologists out there reading this mess of pseudo-science...)

*

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.34. Vulcan mind-meld. I tell you...It’s a hell of a thing._

_I always knew, as captain of a starship, I’d be going all kinds of strange, incredible places. Traveling across the galaxy at warp and running into plenty that’d broaden the, uh, metaphorical horizons, as well as the literal ones. There’s nothing else like it. Wouldn’t change it for anything._

_Well, maybe-_

_No. I wouldn’t change it for a damn thing._

_I just never figured that one of the places I’d be heading would be_ inside _, too._

_Turns out there are about as many unknowns between one guy’s pointy ears as there are between the stars._

_And if_ that _doesn’t give you trouble sleeping..._

_Ah, hell._

_Progress on New Vulcan at the science facility continues. I just can’t say how well it continues. Bones- Doctor McCoy’s run into his fair share of complications. Says my trust in him for solving this mess might be overly optimistic. But I know Bones better than Bones does. If anybody can save Spock’s kid, it’s gonna be him._

_Kirk out._

*

Jim gets the transmission while the shuttle’s engines are powering down, mere seconds after landing. He flips the communicator open, shielding his eyes from the hot New Vulcan sun as the shuttle door opens.

“Kirk here.”

“Jim. You landed?” Bones sounds about as cheerful as ever. “It’s about damn time. There’s somethin’ we need to talk about.”

“Sounds serious.”

“You’re damn right it is. How fast can you get to the incubation centre?”

Fast: that’s the answer. Maybe too fast. Jim’s sweating through his command golds by the time he arrives.

He waves his ID badge at the stern-looking Vulcans standing either side of the lab door and staggers into the room, doubling over and clutching his knees as he careens to a stop.

“My god, man, did you run all the way here?” Bones is at his side right away, hauling him into a seat.

“You...you said...it was important,” Jim pants, shooting Spock a grateful smile as he passes him a glass of water from who knows where. He gulps it down eagerly. “So. What’s up, Doc?”

Bones rolls his eyes, mouth twisting into a scowl. “Incredible, _never_ heard  _that_ one before,” He takes a deep breath, glancing at the group of solemn, pointy-eared scientists behind him - who, impassive but no doubt secretly judgemental - have been watching the whole exchange. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Jim. Things really aren’t lookin’ good.”

Jim tries not to make the worried look he casts in Spock’s direction too obvious, but Vulcans are quick on the uptake. He tries, but he’s pretty sure he fails abysmally.

Spock’s back is ramrod straight, face composed without a single crack, his gaze fixed firmly on the life support machines in the corner of the room - and not in a way that suggests he’s watching them because he believes observation will alter the likely outcome. It’s more that he requires a place in the room to direct his focus and happened to have chosen that wall.

Jim swallows. There’s that presence in his mind, at least. He can do more than nothing - like thinking supportive  _hey, remember, I’ve got your back_ thoughts.

“The Hepcidin treatment was only a temporary thing - a way of keeping her stable until we figured out somethin’ that’ll work long term. Unless we’re gonna keep her in that tank for the rest of her life, she’s gonna need the  _HAMP_ gene. And they don’t exactly grow on trees.”

The young Vulcan woman Jim’s managed to identify as Doctor T’Penna - the scientist that Bones seems to want to strangle the least - steps forward. “Gene manipulation is a highly complex process and is still considered by many to be morally and ethically unsound. That aside, there is the additional problem that we cannot artificially reproduce the gene.”

Jim looks between her and Bones. “But you guys found _something_ , right?”

Bones and T’Penna exchange a Look. Jim’s heart kicks up a gear. Because he knows that look. It only ever means _yes, but you’re not gonna like it_.

“C’mon. Spit it out,” Jim says.

“The only solution we can see having a lasting effect would require the participation of a human donor. More specifically, we would need to procure DNA from a human with a functional  _HAMP_ gene that we could combine with the DNA the child carries from Commander Spock.” T’Penna pauses. “If the chromosomes are split equally, 23 from each donor, to the rest of the scientific community it will be regarded less like ‘genetic tampering’ and more comparable to simply recreating the moment of conception within the environment of the synthetic uterus. Likewise, it is our conjecture that having these additional human genes will make the body less likely to reject the  _HAMP_ gene. However, even if the DNA splicing is successful, the child will be in need of further blood transfusions from the human donor. Additionally, there will likely be further complications which, even at this advanced stage, we cannot yet foresee.”

Jim has a lump in his throat. While T’Penna calmly and openly meets his stare, Bones is studiously examining his PADD, fingers gripping it almost as tight as his jaw is clenching. In his peripheral vision, Jim can see - and he can sense - the line of Spock’s shoulders: ruler-straight as he keeps his eyes on the machinery.

The tension in the room is so high that, coupled with New Vulcan’s temperature, it’s starting to make Jim feel physically ill. The consequences of this are already clamouring in his mind, the panic growing, but he knows that however long he puts off this decision, at the end of the day, there’s only one answer he can give.

“I’ll do it.”

“Jim-” Bones begins.

“Captain-” Spock cuts in, with a formality that doesn’t do a thing for the tension. But Jim gets it, in a way; this is New Vulcan, Spock’s almost-home - a facsimile of his real home, anyway - where formality is the only acceptable currency. Spock has to do things by the book to prove to himself, as much as to anyone else, that he made the right choice when he enrolled in Starfleet instead of the Vulcan Science Academy.

And Jim’s certain that Spock made the right choice.

Just like Jim’s making the right choice now.

“I said I’ll do it,” Jim repeats. “Bones, come on - you know how impossible it is for anything to keep me down. If you’ve said it once, you’ve said it a thousand times at least. Not to mention that transfusion I got a while back - Khan’s blood. _Khan’s_ blood, Bones. Whatever I’ve got of him in me might help with the kid's healing process.” Jim’s mind is moving a lightyear per second, all the way up to Warp 9. This is Spock’s daughter. _Jesus_. “Come on, Bones. It’ll work.”

“Sure, it _could_ work,” Bones replies, his eyebrow managing to look doubtful and hopeful at the same time. Spock isn’t the only one who can be two things at once. “But it could _also_ be the most damn foolish idea in the- Jim, that’d make her _your_ daughter, too.”

Jim can’t look at Bones anymore; he can’t not look at Spock. “Spock. If it’s the only chance she has-” Jim pauses, mouth dry, throat tight. Yeah, maybe Bones is right. Maybe this is the stupidest idea Jim’s had since the Warp Core Incident. But that worked out. It was the right thing to do. And Jim’s got a feeling that this is the same kind of circumstance. He has to put it all on the line. “If you’re against it, you can say that. Off the record _and_ on. I’m not ordering you as a captain. I’m _offering_ as somebody who-” Cares. Probably too much. “-as a friend,” Jim finishes.

Spock nods, but only barely. Jim’s learned to look for those minuscule signs, so small that if he blinks, he’ll miss ‘em.

He wouldn’t miss this one.

“That’s what I thought,” Jim says. “Come on, Bones. We’re doing this.”

*

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.34. You know something? I hate needles. They’re just- ah, shit. I’ll explain later. Bones is back already._

_Kirk out._  

* 

Bones squints suspiciously at Jim as he scrambles to put his PADD away, then lifts his hand. 

 _Another_ needle. “You ready?”

“You need  _more_ blood? I’m pretty sure you already took about six pints.”

“Hardly,” Bones is gearing up for one of his favourite lines; Jim can tell. It’s a part of the process. In a way, it’s even soothing. “Don’t be such an infant. You know that was all for testin’ - the wrong blood type or the wrong chemicals in your bloodstream and that little baby’s life could be over before it’s even started.”

“I thought my blood type was irrelevant, under the circumstances. Besides, the only person putting chemicals in my bloodstream is  _you._ ”

Bones swallows and puts the needle carefully down on the tray, gripping the edge of it with one hand and running the other hand through his hair, “Jim, look, you’ve gotta understand: this is still a pretty new procedure. We’re flyin’ by the seats of our pants here - robes, in the case of these Vulcans. There are still people violently opposed to this sorta thing who aren’t scared to speak up about it. So, even if it seems pointless, we’ve gotta do _everythin’_ by the book. We’ve gotta document every single _tiny_ thing we do, when we hiccup, when we scratch an itch, because if one _little_ part goes wrong or someone finds a slip up in our work and declares that we’ve done somethin’ damn unethical here... Well. We’ll be up to our elbows in shit and that’ll be the least of our problems, let’s leave it at that. Now, if you’d be so kind as to cooperate for the damn fool thing  _you_  volunteered for?”

It’s a hell of a speech.

Jim rolls up his sleeve and holds out his forearm with what might just be an apology, for anyone who’s listening closely. Bone grunts, inserts the needle with barely a pinch, and hooks the whole thing up to a machine.

It’s not a position Jim ever wanted to be in again - all the blood tests, the monitors, the constant beeping, and Bones hovering over one shoulder to make sure he doesn’t _Khan out_ \- but it’s worth the sweaty flashbacks.

“Right. I just gotta take a whole load more blood and about a ton of DNA samples - not from anywhere sensitive, don’t give me that face, Jim - and then you’ll be good to go. We’ve taken a fair share of blood from you today so Spock’ll keep an eye on you until you’re good to walk, and then he’ll escort you home. Don’t try to wiggle your way out of it, either. You’re doin’ this, so you’re doin’ it _my_ way.”

Jim leans to the side to see Spock hovering in the doorway behind Bones. If there were fewer needles, Jim might’ve noticed him without having to look.

Now there’s a thought. Jim shuts his eyes and focuses on the bond between himself and his First Officer.

_Spock, are you sure you don’t wanna stay and, I dunno, keep an eye on the stuff here?_

“As I do not have a specialisation in advanced genetic studies nor any qualifications that might aid the doctor in the more practical aspects of this procedure, my presence here would be superfluous, Captain.”

_Huh. So this is telepathy. Neat._

Bones throws Spock a weird look. “What was that?”

“The Captain appeared surprised as to my choice to depart. I was simply pre-empting any questions he may have felt the need to vocalise,” Spock replies.

 _You smooth Vulcan, you._ Jim grins but swallows it immediately as Bones turns back around.

The last thing Bones likes is a smiling patient.  

Spock takes a step closer; Jim feels without having to turn that Spock’s there at his shoulder, hands clasped behind his back, a familiar, formal position. But still comforting.

“I’m good,” Jim says. _Feeling like a pincushion, though. Some days I think Bones enjoys sticking me with things way more than he lets on._

_If you are experiencing discomfort-_

_I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. No use lying now, anyway. You’d know if I was bullshitting you with this telepathic link, right?_

_Though I would not phrase it in those terms, you are correct. There is nothing to be gained by a futile attempt to obscure the truth._

Jim sighs and stares at one of the monitors until his vision blurs and he’s forced to blink. _Yeah, well, I didn’t. See? We’re growing. We’re helping each other grow._

 _These circumstances recall to mind your time during recovery after the_ Enterprise’s _encounter with Khan._

 _Whoa, Spock. Maybe that’s a little_ too _much truth for one mental conversation. Give a guy some warning first before you force him to look at his life and his choices like that next time._

_Just as you would not lie to me, I would not lie to you._

Oh, Jim thinks. Is that all it is? Now, instead of having one conscience, he’s got three. His own, which he constantly finds himself wrestling with; Bones’, which is needle sharp at the best of times; and Spock’s, which is the one he can’t help but listen to.

_I got it, Spock. Thanks for the reminder._

_Though there may be similarities to those past experiences, the circumstances themselves are different._

_Is this- Are you trying to comfort me, Spock?_

_I recall a past suggestion that I improve my bedside manner._

Jim can sense Spock’s amusement, a gentle warmth flowing into his mind. He could get used to this.

“The two of you are being pretty damn quiet, you know,” Bones says, breaking Jim’s concentration. “And it’s startin’ to creep me out.”

“So’s the amount of blood leaving my system, Bones, but you don’t see me complaining,” Jim replies.

Bones squints at him. “You were complainin’ a- Spock knows exactly how long ago it was. You were complainin’ _then_.”

“Yeah,” Jim says, fighting a grin as he sees Bones starting to wind up. “But I got over it.”

“Yeah? Pull the other one, kid, it’s got bells on it,” Bones grumbles, then turns to level his wagging finger at Spock. “And before _you_ make any smart-ass comments, no, I don’t  _literally_ have bells on my leg. It’s a well-known and well-respected Terran idiom.”

Spock raises an eyebrow that looks like a combination of vague offence and disbelief. Jim doesn’t know if it’s the mind-meld or applied practice, but he’s finally starting to translate Spock Eyebrow into Standard. Spock glances to Jim, as if for confirmation. Jim grins widely.

“It means he doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m a big fat whiny baby.”

“And _that’s_ because you _are_.”

“Bones, come on. You know you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

Bones snorts loudly, but Jim knows that snort. It’s the one he uses to cover up a smile.

 _You are neither an infant nor noticeably overweight, Jim. I do not understand why you react as if this description is an affectionate one_.

Jim can’t smother his grin at that, either.  _It’s a joke, Spock. If I_ didn’t _whine, then he’d be worried_.

_That is highly illogical, but considering it was Doctor McCoy who said it, that is not overly surpris-_

“Right.” Bones huffs, touching the corner of his PADD to the machine monitoring Jim’s blood flow to sync the data, and Jim wonders not for the first time whether Bones can read minds or if he just has _really_ good dramatic timing. “Well, this is gonna take about another ten minutes, so I’m gonna go grab myself some much-needed nutrients. While I’m gone, don’t even  _think_ about gettin’ up or movin’ around, and if you start to feel faint or sick or dizzy, you press the emergency button I installed on your comm, understand?”

“Yes, Bones. Understood, Bones. Get your food, Bones.”

Bones turns on Spock. “And as for you - I’m leavin’ you in charge of him. He can use his PADD with his other hand but no matter how big those baby blues get, do _not_ let him up.”

“Regardless of the size of the Captain’s eyes, I will follow your instructions, Doctor.”

“Heaven help us the day _this_ one finally figures out how to tell a damn joke.” Bones squeezes Jim’s good arm gently, nods at Spock, and exits the room with a vague wave behind him, shaking off Jim’s question - _when was the last time you even ate?_

Almost immediately, Spock moves around from behind Jim’s shoulder to stand at his side.

_Doctor McCoy installed an ‘emergency button’ on your communicator?_

_Oh, yeah._ Jim holds it up for Spock’s examination. _It’s in case I have an allergic reaction to something when he’s not around and I can’t speak because my tongue’s swollen or I’m passing out or whatever. It sends my coordinates straight to his PADD._

 _That is...surprisingly logical._  

_I guess I don’t need that with you, though; I just gotta think I’m-In-Trouble thoughts and you’ll come charging in to save me like a big Vulcan knight in shining armour, right?_

The silence lasts long enough for Jim to feel the hot tendrils of embarrassment creep up his neck and he wonders fleetingly if he can pass it off as a joke, but when Spock does speak, it’s well worth it, because the words are genuine and sound like they’re from somewhere deep inside - the place Jim got to see during the meld.

_If it is within my power, I promise that I will not allow you to come to harm._

Jim swallows. _Yeah. Thanks, Spock. I know._

_However, Vulcans do not have shining armour._

Jim settles back in his seat, letting his eyes fall shut. He’s not feeling faint or woozy, just naturally tired from the blood loss. He’s not sure if he’s grateful for the oddly human distraction Spock provided him with in the face of an emotional moment, or pissed about it. Both’s a good answer whenever Spock’s involved. _And Bones thinks you haven’t figured out human senses of humour yet. Pssh._

 _I have been given ample material for study, after all,_ Spock replies.

*

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE... Pretty damn late for that summit._

_Stardate New Vulcan is too damn hot._

_Stardate sleepy._

_Stardate not gonna let Bones on to that before he comes here with any more of his hypos._

_Stardate who the hell invented needles in the first place?_

_...Stardate gotta be quiet ‘cause Spock’s nearby and he’d never approve of this stardate system._

_Right. Kirk here. What’s left of me after that transfusion, anyway. Now all we’ve gotta do is play the waiting game. My least favourite game, by the way, right after chess with a Vulcan who’d never cheat to let his captain win._

_But that’s not what I’m talking about. I didn’t think about it too hard before - the choice was obvious no matter what the implications might be - but by donating the necessary DNA for a half-human Vulcan baby to survive, technically... Technically that makes_ me _a parent. Biologically, at least. But Vulcans love technicalities and biology._

_Maybe I did think about it before._

_Maybe I didn’t want to think about it._

_Could be, with this mind-meld thing, and me being so close to the situation, I could actually_ hear _..._

_Nah. That’s crazy._

_This whole thing’s crazy._

_Stardate: crazy. Kirk here. I guess this is something I should be talking to First Officer Spock about. Whether or not we’re having a kid together._

_Stardate: that_ is _crazy, right?_

_Kirk out._

*

It’s late - Jim should be asleep, given how tired he feels, deep-in-his-bones weary - when he realises what’s bothering him. New Vulcan has a moon. Vulcan didn’t.

And it’s not bothering him; it’s bothering Spock, who’s also still awake, sitting bedside with his PADD, on Captain Guard Duty while Bones finally nabs himself some much-needed shuteye.

“Spock,” Jim says.

Spock blinks.

_I can hear you, Jim._

_Yeah, right. Your mind to my mind. Spock, can I ask you something?_

_You may ask me whatever you wish to, Jim._

God, Jim thinks. He’s gotta find some way to cover up the flush of pleasure he feels whenever Spock calls him that because eventually, Spock’s gonna have some questions of his own.

 _So, uh..._ He tries to bring it up in the most nonchalant way possible, which isn’t easy. Especially since his stomach is churning and Spock can probably feel that, so he should just say - well,  _think -_ something, anything, right about now. _Do you know what’s gonna happen to her? If she survives, I mean?_

_She will be adopted by a Vulcan couple unable to have their own offspring or willing to add another to their family. She will then be raised with the teachings of Surak._

Jim shifts into a sitting position, studying the way the blue-white light of Spock’s PADD reflects on the contours of his face. At some point, he must’ve obligingly turned the brightness down so that it wouldn’t keep Jim awake, but the low glow is soothing. Kind of like a night-light.

“The teachings of Surak, huh? That’ll be pretty tough for her, won’t it? Seeing as she’s only a quarter Vulcan now.” Spock lifts his head in surprise and Jim shrugs. “Sorry, I just feel like this conversation should happen aloud. It’s kind of weird thinking at you in a silent room.”

Spock does the humming noise and mouth twitch combo that Jim knows is his equivalent of a sigh. “It will not be easy for her, no.”

“It’s just- I don’t-” Jim makes an aborted hand movement, then flops back down onto his pillows. “Maybe this is crazy, but I kind of feel...responsible, you know? The idea of  _any_  kid feeling like the odd one out is awful, but she’ll be all on her own here. At least you had somebody when you were growing up.”

“I must admit, I have had similar concerns,” Spock glances down at his PADD with pursed lips. “I intend to procure a list of potential parents and advise Doctor T’Penna and her associates to hand the child into the care of the ones I believe will prove most...patient. And perhaps, if he is amenable…”

Jim waits, feeling Spock’s hesitance in the air and in his mind. Spock clears his throat and seems to make an effort to shrug it off.

“If he is amenable, I intend to ask the Ambassador to, as you might say, ‘keep an eye on her’. I think, perhaps, he might be...pleased to do this.”

Jim strains to lift his head - so Spock can see, not just feel, his wide smile. “Good idea, Spock. That's - that's a _really_ good idea,” The yawn comes out of nowhere, so wide his jaw creaks. “Man, I’m wiped.”

“You should sleep.”

“Would if I could. Sure, I’m exhausted physically, but my mind’s still buzzing.” Jim taps the side of his head, then heaves a sigh, rolling over to hide his face in his pillow.

“You are concerned for the child’s wellbeing?”

Jim turns his face to the side so he can actually breathe, not to mention speak. “Yeah, sure. I think that’s part of it.”

“Would it calm you to know that, since the transfusion and DNA procedure, the negative projections from her mind have decreased significantly and her vital signs have become noticeably stronger?”

Jim freezes. “You mean it worked?”

“For the moment, yes. It appears she is stable.”

Jim rolls over and sits up in one fluid movement, the grogginess practically sloughing off of him. “Can I...?” he asks, gesturing between their heads.

“The emotional state of any young child is unlike anything you have already experienced. The younger the individual, the less structured their thoughts are - the more pure their emotions.” Spock pauses. Jim doesn’t think he sounds disapproving or even displeased, just cautious. “If you are not prepared, the weight of that emotional transfer may be overwhelming.”

“You think I can’t take it?” Jim grins, always the best cure for nerves. “C’mon, Spock, that was a joke, number one. And number two... I don’t know. Guess I never saw myself as the type to have a kid. At least, not this soon.”

Or ever. Nobody knows better about the dangers of having a Starfleet captain for a parent than James Tiberius Kirk, after all.

“You are thinking of your own father,” Spock says.

Jim shrugs again, loosening his tight shoulders with the motion. “Sure I am. Some days it’s like I never _stop_ thinking about him. But what about your old man, Spock?”

“I believe it is a human phrase: ‘the sins of the father...’”

“Yeah - that, or the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Jim pats the bed next to him and, after another pause, Spock rises to join him, the PADD dimming as he sets it aside to rest on his chair. “So it’s a good thing we’re not apples...That was a joke, too.”

Spock does him the favour of not commenting on it either way, at least. They really are getting along, although the sign of true friendship, Jim’s pretty sure, would be laughing anyway. But maybe that’s a human expectation.

“Very well, Jim. You are correct in your belief that your contributions to her progress do, indeed, implicate you in her parentage,” Spock says. “As such, I would be remiss in denying you the experience of knowing the thoughts of one who may well be, at least biologically...your child.”

And there it is. The truth Jim’s been trying to acknowledge and avoid simultaneously. Either way, he was bound to be freaked out. There’s no way around it now.

A shiver runs down the length of his spine and settles in the small of his back when Spock touches the side of his face - initiating physical contact that opens the channels to a new mental connection.

A warmth; a hum. Comfort. A heartbeat. That low, quiet rhythm, steady and sentient, fills Jim all the way to the tips of his fingers. It is _life,_ and the life it’s a part of that makes Jim’s throat tight, his eyes wide.

It shouldn’t be that simple.

But it is.

“Shit,” Jim says, his voice cracking. “That’s really-”

“Jim, if this in any way-”

“No. Spock, don’t-” Jim catches Spock’s wrist before Spock can retract his hand. “It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. I’m just overwhelmed, that’s all. Takes a bit of getting used to. I guess I…” Jim trails off, then laughs in a way that he hopes doesn’t sound quite as choked up as he knows he is. “I just wasn’t expecting to  _feel_ quite so much. You know? I mean, I donated a bunch of DNA samples and some blood to a vague silhouette I could see in a big tank of goo, and now I can feel her  _heartbeat_ in my head. That’s a lot to take in. I’m just trying to figure out how to react to it all.”

Spock nods. “I understand.”

That’s all Jim needs to hear.

Of course Spock gets it; they’re in exactly the same boat, after all, only Spock went through all of this weeks ago, silently, without telling anyone. Some of that weird behavior is really starting to make sense.

But it opens up a Pandora’s box of things that don’t.

Like, for example, how close Jim and Spock are: cross-legged on the same bed, facing one another, knees a hair’s breadth from touching. It reminds Jim of the last time he was sleepless and went to Spock for help, the first - and maybe not surprisingly last - time they tried meditation. The night when all this started.

The parallel doesn’t pass him by and he focuses on it, because those sorts of thoughts are sure as hell safer than the ones threatening to break through the surface, concerning the alarming proximity of his first officer’s mouth.

Jim closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and centres himself on the gentle pulsing beat that echoes throughout his body and mind, bringing them together. With the emotional rush subsided, at least comparatively, he’s left with a deep, dark quietness. He can feel her projections washing over him.  _Warm_.  _Full. Safe_.

He never even considered whether a baby could understand the concept of safety - much less the opposite.

“Spock,” he asks, voice a distant murmur, “Will I stop sensing her when you stop the meld?”

“The connection will fade, yes. However, as you now share a biological bond, her mind will naturally seek out yours - although, due to your lack of psionic ability, I cannot guarantee how successful her attempts at reaching you would be, given that her own abilities require time to mature.”

“So what you’re saying is, she’ll be looking for me and she might not be able to find me?” That’s the opposite of safety, Jim figures. It’s the opposite of everything a parent should stand for: always being there whenever a kid reaches out a hand. Psionic or quarter-Vulcan or otherwise. Jim knew who he could reach for when he was a kid and who he couldn’t, though that didn’t stop him from reaching out for the latter, instincts kicking in over knowledge, missing a father he’d never know. Jim swallows. “She’ll be looking for me and it’ll be like I’m not even there.”

“It is unlikely that she would be able to verbalise any sort of disappointment.” Spock pauses. “If the possibility that she should feel...abandoned by a presence she recognises as yours bothers you, however, then I would not be averse to re-establishing that connection for you when I sense her searching for you.”

Jim opens his eyes. Spock’s face is calm. It’s like they’re not talking about what they’re talking about at all - a living, breathing entity that’s made up of parts from both of them. She’s her own individual, sure, but they’re the ones who made her.

And Bones.

Bones had _something_ to do with it.

Jim’s red blood and Spock’s green blood and this steady, soothing heartbeat.

Jim knows better than to assume Spock’s calm exterior means a cold interior - or even a calm one. That’s not it at all. They’re listening to the heartbeat together and some of the heat on Jim’s cheeks isn’t from the heat in his chest alone. His ribs ache from having to hold it all inside, his warmth and Spock’s warmth.

“You’d do that, Spock?”

“I see no reason why I should not.”

“Thanks. It’s... I mean, you don’t have to, that’s all. Just don’t worry about interrupting anything, all right? If she’s looking for me, I want to know about it.”

Spock nods. “Understood.”

“Good. That’s-” Jim’s voice almost cracks and he clears his throat to keep it from being too obvious. “That’s good, Spock.”

“You offered yourself, despite your discomfort, to save her life. Though this behaviour is not without precedent and is therefore unsurprising, it is no less admirable.”

Jim can’t help but grin. “You saying you admire me, huh?”

“I admire that which is admirable,” Spock replies.

“And you’re not pissed or freaked out or even annoyed I just-” Jim takes another steadying breath. All the warmth is getting to him. “She’s your baby, Spock. But - I mean, _if_ you’re okay with it - she’s kind of... _ours_ , too.”

Yeah. It’s as terrifying spoken out loud as it was lurking around in the back of Jim’s mind. Good to have that fact confirmed.

Spock is silent for a long moment. Just when Jim starts to feel anxiety bubble inside of him, regretting speaking so candidly, Spock’s face softens. They’re so close that Jim can’t possibly miss it.

Which means it might be something Spock wants him to see.

“It is curious, but I find myself relieved to acknowledge that the responsibility for her life no longer rests solely on my shoulders.” Spock’s eyes flick up to meet Jim’s gaze; they’re as dark as ever, but they’re also warm and gentle. “I suppose you could accurately say that I am glad to share it with another, and more glad still that it is you with whom I share it.”

Jim doesn’t bother reigning in the force of his grin. “Me too, Spock.”

Just like that, Spock is moving his hand away and sitting back. Jim’s cheeks ache from smiling but that’s suddenly dwarfed by the ache inside of him - because he’s alone in his head again and what has, for nearly thirty years now, felt normal, feels _lonely_ instead.

He seeks out the quiet presence and finds Spock there, in the back of his mind. Shielded, yeah, but present.

In contrast, the physical Spock is reaching for his PADD, rising and moving away from Jim and back to the chair. Jim remembers, begrudgingly, that the whole situation had begun in an attempt to help him sleep in the first place. It’s out of gratitude for that assistance, for Spock’s involvement, that he lies back and closes his eyes obediently.

Sleep tugs at him and he gives in, his limbs relaxing into the closest approximation of comfort he can get, all things considered.

He doesn’t expect to hear Spock’s voice resound in his mind, echoing off his grey matter.

_Jim, you must endeavour to keep as emotionally distant as possible. It is natural for affection to grow between humans very quickly, as your species tend to thrive on empathy and shared emotion. Nowhere is this more true than where children are concerned. However, if the transfusion was as successful as her vitals suggest, we will be leaving New Vulcan within the next two days to continue on to take our belated place at the conference, and as we have no orders to revisit the planet in the foreseeable future, it will be unlikely that you will have any contact with her for several months, if not a full year. By this point, she will have most likely ceased her psionic attempts to reach you; she will have formed new bonds with her adoptive parents. I am concerned that you will suffer emotionally if you continue to allow yourself to manifest such strong parental feelings towards her._

_Is that all, Spock?_

A pause. Jim drifts in that sleepless, wakeless space between dreams and reality.

_It was necessary that I provide counsel._

_Yeah, I get it. But you’ve given me plenty to think about, and you were the one who figured I needed my beauty sleep._

_Sleep, Jim._

_You’re sending mixed signals, Spock._

It figures that it’s the last sentiment Jim would transmit before allowing himself to let go of everything he still needs to figure out. He means it, too - in more ways than one.


	5. Chapter 5

*

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.135. Kirk here._

_Haven’t spoken about the situation with Spock’s kid for a while. With...the kid for a while. The...our kid. The kind-of-our-kid._

_But to tell you the truth, I’ve been doing my best not to think about it. It seems like that’s the best solution to a problem that’s not technically a problem and probably can’t be solved._

_Still, according to some people - Doctor McCoy loves giving unwanted advice as much as unwanted hypos - the things you don’t talk about can be worse than the broken bones you don’t treat or the infections you tell yourself you can ignore._

_It’s not exactly captain’s business. There are plenty of kids out there with parents in Starfleet. Plenty. And odds are - statistically speaking, though I’m no Commander Spock - that plenty of those don’t have to live without parents because of it._

_Spock was right when he told me not to get too attached. It was more than just the usual Vulcan conquer-your-emotions thing, at least._

_It’s been one hundred and one days._

_And yeah._

_I’ve been counting._

*

Jim is tired.

 _Exhausted_.

The same thing has been keeping him up for months now. Because Bones is right, frustratingly. Because the more he tries not to think about it - this kid, this part human, part Vulcan baby - the more it manifests in dreams Jim wishes he wasn’t having, in sleepless nights he can’t exactly bring up with Spock, who knows better, or Bones, who also knows better. And it’s not like he can talk it through with anyone _else_ , as they decided against explaining the real situation to the crew when they left New Vulcan - partly because it was so damn  _complicated_ , and partly because it was unlikely to become relevant to their duties anyway.

Jim sat down and, with Spock and Bones’ contributions, recorded a full account of the whole process, then logged it away with security codes that Spock ensured him none of the  _Enterprise_ ’s wunderkinds would be able to hack through. And that, as they say, was that. Jim managed to get away with answering any questions lobbed his way as vaguely and quickly as possible, and practically right after the whole ordeal, they ran into that weirdo on Gothos, and New Vulcan was forgotten in the face of a new almost-catastrophe that required averting.

Worse than the weird isolation and the insomnia, though, is Spock’s...Spock-ness.

They haven’t melded since New Vulcan, haven’t communicated telepathically for weeks. The whole mental link thing ought to have been really _really_ helpful when Jim was sprinting around a deserted planetoid trying not to get killed by a Gorn captain a few days ago, but it turned out the Metrons had a disruptive field to stop that sort of thing. As it was, Jim was sure he sensed a flare of  _something_ \- whether it was professional relief or personal pleasure - when he returned to the ship relatively unharmed, but apart from that...

Nothing.

Jim actually allowed himself to think they’d been making progress, that they were getting somewhere. However, the moment they left New Vulcan, things changed; the Spock who’d whispered that he was glad that it was his friend who he was sharing this whole crazy experience with - the one who spoke the name  _Jim_ like it was held extra-sensory meaning - had disappeared behind an impenetrable wall of newly reinforced Vulcan propriety.

And on top of all that, he still can’t shake the feeling he’s letting a baby girl out there down, despite how much better qualified her Vulcan parents are to raise her happy and healthy and right. After all, they’re Vulcan parents. What’re they gonna say to her if - when - she cries?

Jim hasn’t heard anything about the baby. Not what she looks like, what colour her eyes are - hell, he doesn’t even know her  _name_. All he knows is that, when he’d asked a month or so ago, Spock reassured him that her 'birth' had no further complications, that her health was fine and that she hadn’t projected anything negative or worthy of concern; that Spock would inform Jim if this were to change, or if he sensed her seeking for Jim’s mind, and otherwise he would not allow the issue to impose upon their five year mission.

Apparently, she’s adjusted to her new parents, because Spock has absolutely nothing to report on that matter. But that doesn’t stop the dreams of tiny reaching hands, sobbing high pitched voices, whispers of  _where are you you left me you left me youleftmeyouleftme-_

“You are distracted, Jim,” Spock says.

Jim realizes he’s been staring at a rook for a really, _really_ long time. Possibly in the minutes territory.

“God, sorry, I just...I didn’t sleep well last night,” he rubs at his eyes. And then he thinks, _Jim,_  Spock called him  _Jim,_ and that ridiculous warm flare in his chest is all the encouragement he needs. “We should talk. About this. Us. _Her_. Uh, the three of us, you know?”

Spock is staring at him, facial expression perfectly composed apart from the tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows that Jim knows means confusion. “I do not follow. The child is healthy and not unhappy - what more is there to discuss?”

It takes a lot of willpower to restrain his screech of frustration, but Jim manages it. He sighs loudly instead.

“Look, this would probably be easier if we...” he gestures vaguely between his forehead and Spock’s.

“You wish to leave the game and meld?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay? I just think it would be easier.”

“I am not adverse to the suggestion.” Spock says simply, and Jim knows that’s the best he’s gonna get.

“Cool.”

The both push their chairs back and stand. Jim glances down at the floor – they’re in his quarters tonight, and he remembered just in time to hide his dirty laundry before Spock arrived – then decides, _to hell with it_ , he doesn’t have a rug or cushions and he doesn’t want pins and needles in his ass again, so he leads the way over to his bed. Spock follows without hesitation, pulling off his boots before sitting opposite him, cross-legged again.

 _Deja vu,_ Jim thinks, feeling excited despite himself. He thinks he sees the corners of Spock’s mouth twitch before he closes his eyes, before he feels the touch of fingertips to his cheek and-

They’re standing side by side at the edge of the library, what he guesses is probably the space between their minds, and Jim can’t fight back a grin. _I missed this_. He turns and smiles shyly,  _I...kinda missed_ you _too_.

Spock frowns at him,  _Since our last meld, the longest time we have been separated is twelve hours, and for at least nine point six of those hours you were asleep in sick bay. I was under the impression that humans required a much greater time lapse before they-_

 _Not physically, Spock_ , Jim scratches awkwardly at his neck,  _Emotionally. We haven’t talked about anything other than ship business, we haven’t hung out properly, we haven’t melded – we spent a lot of time together on New Vulcan, I guess I...,_ he shrugs,  _It’s difficult getting that close to someone then having to let go of it all suddenly. Sorry, illogical human thing._

He’s blushing, but Spock seems to understand, nodding slowly and thoughtfully.  _There was something you wished to convey to me?_

 _Oh, yeah. Uh, how do we get into my mind? Do I just...?_ Jim stares into the blank space before them and concentrates, _I guess I’m not really sure what my mind’s supposed to look like..._

 _That is not surprising; it is far easier to interpret what you see of others than to be self-aware enough to interpret your own thoughts into physicality. If you would like, I could show you a physical representation of how_ I _perceive your mind?_

The question is almost shy and a little hesitant. Jim reaches out and takes Spock’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly, a rush of warmth shooting through him at the familiarity of it all. _I’d like that, yeah._

It is space.

Space literally erupts around them. It is darkness, full of light. Planets, thousands of stars, supernovas flaring and whole galaxies spiralling around them, constellations mapping his thoughts and suns that burn with his emotions and planets that house his memories. Everything is moving and shifting and roaring with _life_. Never-ending and constantly changing.

Jim tries to swallow the lump in his throat, forcing it away with a rather choked chuckle, _Messy and chaotic and completely illogical. Figures._

_That is one way to analyse it._

_Oh, yeah?_ A comet flares to life in Jim’s peripheral vision, plummeting swiftly through the darkness, gone as soon as it appears. Jim remembers lying on his back on the roof of Uncle Frank’s house, waiting for a shooting star to make a wish on, but he never saw one fall. All that looking, and they must’ve streaked past whenever he blinked - at least until he got smart and started planning his stargazing sessions. But once he was armed with the knowledge of when there’d be a shower, it didn’t seem like wishing would do any good.  _And what’s another way? I mean, I take it you’re about to tell me another way._

_Infinite diversity in infinite combinations._

_I’m flattered, Spock, but I’ve got about twenty-five combinations, tops. Maybe twenty-seven on a good day._

_I chose the infinite diversity of space not for its chaos and illogic, but for its scope and breadth. And because I have reason to believe that you are more comfortable here, with a sense of movement, than you are with staying in one place. A room would not be appropriate. A starship was too obvious. Space itself seemed most appropriate to someone of your nature._

_Huh._ There’s warmth in Jim’s chest like a comet caught in the orbit of a nearby star. That’s Jim all right - the comet. A big hunk of junk moving too fast and burning too bright for its own good, but it makes a hell of a show, if only for the blink of an eye.

_I did not intend insult, Jim._

_Well, with that in mind, no offense taken, Spock._ Jim can’t stare at any one spot for too long without it burning his eyes - overwhelming his senses, that is - but if he squints in certain directions, he can get pieces of the whole picture.  _But the more I think about it, the more I think, maybe…_

Spock’s silence is patient.

He is waiting.

_Maybe a cornfield. I don’t know. Somewhere on the ground, looking up at all these stars._

_You are among these stars now, Jim. You are closer to them than to any cornfield._ Spock pauses.  _What is it you wished to show me?_

 _It’s…complicated, Spock._ Now that they’re here, Jim isn’t sure he wants Spock to feel every little thing. The desire; the uncertainty. The loneliness, and even brighter than that, the hope. 

 _And that was why you wished us to meld, because you believed it would be easier to show me, rather than put it into words..._ Spock pauses, watching the passage of a swirling galaxy nearby, reading and interpreting whatever signals Jim's mind is giving off. He turns back with a raised eyebrow,  _And because...you did not wish me to be able to 'run away'?_

Jim swallows and shrugs apologetically, _I'm sorry, Spock, it’s just...you've been pushing me away again. If you need time and space to, I dunno, rebuild your anti-illogical barriers, then fine, obviously that's fine, but please, I_ need _you to let me know that._

Spock nods slowly, _I understand._

Jim studies the face in front of him, trying to sense whether Spock really does, _So you won’t do this again? You’ll let me know if you need space and you won’t just...drop me?_

 _I will endeavour to better express my personal requirements to avoid future miscommunications,_ Spock says solemnly.

Jim supposes that’s probably the best he’s gonna get.

 _Good. I mean, thanks,_ Jim lets out a sigh and tries to let go of the tension in his chest, but it won’t quite give, _You're my first officer and I'm your captain, so we're in this together, but we have a daughter now, this is a whole new level of togetherness. You can't shut me out here. The two of us are responsible for-_

 _Jim,_ Spock takes Jim's other hand, the one that he's been wildly gesticulating with, so he now has them both in his own. Through the warm physical contact Spock projects a sense of  _grounding_. It makes no sense out here in space, floating in the void of Jim's mind, and even less when considering they are literally in outer space, but Spock's hold on him is strong and anchors him. 

No one can say Vulcans don't learn fast. 

 _Spock_ , Jim breathes. The spinning eddies of constellations around them slow, calm. Spock waits until Jim has drawn three breaths before he speaks.

_Jim, just because you donated genetic material does not mean that you have any obligation to this child. You need not burden yourself with this illogical responsibility you insist on shouldering._

_It’s not that simple, Spock. I can't just...switch it all off! Look at me and tell me you don't understand what I mean._

Spock's eyes are dark, but not distant. He does not draw away and he denies nothing. That, at least, is progress

 _I am aware that humans place a strong significance on biological relationship, irrespective of personal intimacy, which is, I presume, the reasoning behind your inability to emotionally separate yourself from the child. However, the sense of conflict you are experiencing is ultimately moot, as she has been successfully integrated into a Vulcan family,_ Spock tilts his head slightly in a kind of Vulcan shrug, _This is not an issue you are required to resolve immediately._

Jim bites his lip, then shrugs - a real human one - helplessly, _I can’t just switch it all off_ , he repeats.

 _Perhaps_ , Spock says, his pseudo-voice conveying a gentle reassurance that this is just a suggestion and can be rejected without offense, _If you feel you cannot compartmentalise this issue and it will continue to affect you both personally and professionally, you would benefit from, as Doctor McCoy would say, ‘talking it out’. I believe it is a common Terran therapeutic practice._

 _What, like you being my shrink?_ Jim snorts, _You’re going to ask me to tell you about my father or something?_

_Considering the particular issue you are struggling to resolve, discussing your father seems like a wise starting point._

Despite having instigated the meld with the specific intent of sharing, the prospect of actually opening up to Spock in a very vulnerable way feels daunting and uncomfortable.

And then he remembers sitting in Spock's mind library, reading the book about his family, feeling his feelings, living his memories, being granted full access to all he could find - allowed this by Spock, a _Vulcan_.

What's his number one rule of captaining? _Give what you get_. After all they've been through, the years Jim has spent desperately trying to catch a glimpse inside that fortress of Vulcan solitude, to have Spock finally open the door a crack, and Jim refuse to reciprocate?

Jim sighs, fighting down the desire to clam up, _Right then, daddy issues. They're sort of mom issues too, and then there's Uncle Frank, so, uh, parent-slash-guardian issues, I guess. I've got feelings of abandonment from an early age - or that’s what my actual therapist said, anyway, I got bounced around a few in my teens. I never knew my father so the idea of being one myself is sort of...messing me up, I guess. I have no idea what it means, how I should feel about this._

 _However,_ Spock says, undaunted, which is one of the countless things Jim likes about him, _Despite your reservations I cannot imagine that an individual of your passionate nature and admirable determination would not provide for the complex emotional needs of a child._

There's a big lump in Jim's throat that just won't go away. It takes several tries before he can order his thoughts and feelings into anything coherent. 

 _It's not that simple...it’s so much more than that, Spock...god, I don't know how to explain it, but there's just something you gotta have to be a good parent and I don't have it,_ he gestures towards his chest,  _I don’t know the stuff you gotta know, it's not there, whatever it is. Dependability. Patience. A reliable self-preservation instinct. I'm not good at the things parents are meant to be good at!_

Spock's expression hasn't changed and he is still regarding him coolly - but not coldly - as if he is quite calmly waiting for some sort of moment of realisation on Jim's part. Waiting for Jim to realise he's wrong. When Jim stubbornly holds his tongue, Spock gives in.

 _It is my understanding that these are all traits that one develops in the course of parenthood,_  he says, not quite gently, but quietly, if firm,  _And it would be inaccurate to say you are incapable of being dependable or patient; I have witnessed you exemplify both of these traits in the time I have been under your command._

_And self-preservation?_

Spock does one of those Vulcan sighs,  _It is true that you have an unusual obsession with putting yourself in harm's way in order to ensure the safety of others, however, is that not a crucial aspect of responsible parenthood? The willingness to put the safety of dependants above your own?_

And then he waits, again, and Spock's silence says as clear as day, _you are making excuses_.

Frustration and misery bubble up inside of Jim, a dull ache in his chest, a pressure that makes him think that if this were real he might be close to tears. Close to bursting. He has no idea how to make Spock understand when he’s not entirely sure of what the problem is himself.

A thought blurts from him before he can stop it. It’s been clamouring in the back of his mind for so many years that it comes out as a strangled shout.

_I always screw everything up, okay!_

It's raw and ugly, full of decades of insecurity, and it carries a thousand examples along with it –  _Look!_ they say,  _I have no idea what I am doing!_ Despite the pseudo-tears he can feel building he clenches his jaw and lifts his chin, keeping eye contact with Spock and daring him to disagree.

Silence echoes between them for a few painful seconds.

_And yet, despite believing this, you still wish for the responsibility of parenthood?_

Jim blinks, blindsided, and feels his heightened emotions deflate in the wake of his confusion, _Wha- what?_

 _You have declared yourself unfit to parent, and if you had reconciled yourself fully to that fact you would be welcoming the opportunity for your daughter to be placed in the care of others you would consider more able to take on that position_ , Spock raises one eyebrow, _And yet you are not reconciled - instead, you appear to be greatly conflicted at the prospect. Have you considered the possibility that, despite your assertions about yourself, fatherhood is something that you might actually desire?_

Jim slumps down to the ground - or whatever it is that’s supporting them in the middle of space - and Spock lowers himself gracefully in response. Jim notices somewhat distantly that they’re still holding hands.

 _I don’t know. Maybe? I'm an illogical human, what did you expect?_   he grumbles, then huffs an aggravated sigh in an attempt to expel the tension in his chest. The bright flashing stars of his emotions slow and gently dim,  _It doesn't matter anyway - if I want-_ the words stick in his throat, - _that, 'cause like you said, the point is moot._

 _It is a matter which might at least be worth consideration, irrespective of the situation, since it is clearly affecting you,_ Spock replies.

Jim folds his legs under himself. There’s warmth in Spock’s touch, a heat that doesn’t burn. It offers comfort, the kind of comfort Jim can appreciate without knowing what the hell it means or how to classify it. After all, he’s not Spock. He can accept things for what they are without needing a name.

Maybe he’s holding on a little too tight.

 _Sorry,_ Jim says after a few moments of quiet, exhaling heavily again and feeling the tightness around his ribcage loosen, _This got a bit heavy._

He senses a split second of indecision on Spock’s end around whether to address the illogic of that turn of phrase - a habitual reaction more than genuine confusion - but this is a place of total understanding, and Jim can't help but grin at the proof Spock has unwittingly provided that he occasionally _deliberately_ misconstrues his captain.

Not very logical, but Jim can't really talk on that score.

 _Apologies are unnecessary,_ Spock says gently, _Moreover, you are not the only one who questions your suitability when it comes to this particular role._

 _You mean you…?_ The idea of Spock being unprepared for anything at all is enough to make Jim laugh - which doesn’t banish the darkness, but it illuminates it. Brief stars flickering in the distance, still enough to give Jim hope.  _No way, Spock._

 _This infant will be more human than Vulcan, due to the peculiar circumstances of her 'conception’, however she still must contend with her dual heritage. Whilst under the guardianship of full V_ _ulcans, if she is to look to anyone for guidance, she will logically look to me, and I have not fully reconciled those separate halves of myself as yet. How can I offer counsel on that which I have not yet achieved?_

Jim pauses. Then, because it’s only logical, he squeezes Spock’s hand.  _Something tells me you’ll manage it just fine, Spock._

 _I shall endeavour to return your confidence in me in equal and opposite force,_ Spock replies.

It’s the closest thing to a promise Jim can trust.

 _But I can’t even do anything about it. I mean, she has parents now. We might never see her again. Isn’t it illogical for me to...I don’t know, feel so_ invested _in this?_

Spock’s grip on his hand tightens. _It is not._

Together, they watch the stars fall.


	6. Chapter 6

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.175. Kirk here. Officially twenty seven solar days incident-free! That’s gotta be some kind of record...Computer, when was the last_ - _?_

_*_

_CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.175. Yep, it’s a record. The fact that we can’t go a whole month without something crazy happening should probably concern Starfleet. God knows it concerns_ me- _mainly because I’m pretty much always stuck in the middle of it. Fighting for your life and the safety of your ship every other day tends to wear a guy out._

_We should make it to the Itamish System in three days, where I’ve wrangled us some shore leave on Itamish III. It’s nothing too exciting, a standard Class M with a Terran research colony and as much green open space as anyone could want, but we’ve been so busy lately that most of the crew wouldn’t care if it was Rigel VII as long as they got a chance to take a breath of fresh air without something trying to kill them._

_Bones’ll be going down with the first cohort; he, Doctor Marcus and Chekov want to check out the science and medical facilities, so Uhura, Scotty and Sulu are going with the second shift and, as usual, Spock and I will head out last. It’s always weird when there’s a third of the crew missing from the ship but, hey, the queue in the mess is shorter._

_Not really planned what I’m doing yet. Apparently there’s a waterskiing place, and you can rent bikes, so I might check out some of the mountain trails. Might even convince Spock to come with me._

_Oh my god, Spock on a bike._

Spock. _On a_ bike _._

_Oh my god._

_Kirk out._

_*_

Jim slaps Bones heartily on the shoulder, then turns to smile at the small group waiting in the transporter room whilst Scotty sorts out the beam-down coordinates.

“So, you guys got any plans?”

Carol’s grin could provide enough light for a small planet, “Doctor Cài has offered to give me a personal tour of the physics department, as well as free access to the equipment they have there.”

In his peripheral vision, Jim catches the aggravated twitch of Bones’ mouth at the mention of the young, gorgeous, brilliant astrophysicist giving Doctor Marcus a  _personal_ tour.

And because he’s a really, really good friend, he doesn't mention it.

“An incredible opportunity,” Jim agrees. “Of course.”

“Some say opportunity,” Bones mutters.

He keeps it under his breath, which means he’s keeping the rest of himself under control. Even he wouldn’t spoil Carol’s good time by pointing out the native diseases and how likely they all are to develop planetside allergies, mucous excretions, the works.

Just because Bones doesn’t say it doesn’t mean Jim can’t see him thinking about it.

“Have a little fun down there, Bones.” Jim claps him on the shoulder again, this one for his friend and not his CMO. “You  _do_ remember how to have fun, right?”

“I’m not sure if he does,” Carol says.

“Then maybe somebody can remind him, while they’re buttering up the locals,” Jim replies. “Don’t make me pull rank on you two. I need my CMO bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Ship morale depends on it. My _neck_ depends on it. A cranky doctor means plenty of hyposprays for the captain, Doctor Marcus - can I trust you to secure the captain’s health in this matter?”

“Roger that.” Carol’s grin is brighter, even if Jim didn’t think that was possible a moment ago. “I’ll see what I can do, Captain.”

“You think you were a pincushion before,” Bones adds, growled against Jim’s ear, but Jim knows that means  _thanks_. In the secret language they developed during their Academy years, anyway.

Jim watches them beam down with a hint of longing combined with hopeful excitement - Bones deserves someone as smart and sweet as Carol, after all the shit he’s been through.

“You know, it’s like watching your kid head off to school for the first time,” he admits to Spock, who doesn’t respond to that weird sentiment, because how can he?

Jim probably shouldn’t have said something like that in the first place.

Without Bones and the rest, the ship feels empty. Jim throws himself into catching up on some old mission reports that need a closer look so they’ll be up to standard when Jim sends them into HQ. He gets through five before he falls asleep at his desk, which is a new record.

Usually, he gets through at least seven. His lucky number.

*

Jim wakes to a light shaking of his shoulder. He cracks open one eye and finds Spock looming over him.

Spock is _really_ good at looming.

“Mnngrrrhh?” he manages, attempting to sit up and discovering an intensely painful crick in his neck. Hissing, he slaps a hand on it and kneads it with his fingers as he straightens out the rest of his body. “Wassup?”

Spock is frowning. It’s almost as bad as the looming.

“My apologies for the invasion of your quarters, but you were not present in the cafeteria at the time during which you habitually take breakfast, and before he left for shore leave, Doctor McCoy charged me with the duty of protecting of your health during the time in which he is absent. He seemed to fear that without constant supervision you would cause some kind of drastic physical harm to yourself.”

Jim snorts, arching his back and flinching as it clicks loudly, “Yeah, sounds like Bones.”

The frown deepens, “I am beginning to suspect that his paranoia may be justified on this particular subject, if the pain you are experiencing is any indication.”

“M’fine, really. Just gotta choose my nap spots a little better.” Jim yawns and hauls himself to his feet, stretching out his arms above his head. He feels his undershirt ride up and notes, in his peripheral vision, that Spock’s steady gaze _flickers_.

It’s not enough to mean anything, he tells himself. It’s just an observation.

It’s enough to send blood hurtling to his cheeks.

“You know what I could do with?” Jim says quickly as he lowers his arms, changing the subject before Spock can comment on the fact that his red face could indicate some kind of drastic health issue, “A real good stretch. I think I’m gonna head to the gym, maybe do some sparring.”

Spock actually steps forward to block his path to the door, and Jim has a fleeting moment of concern about how seriously Spock is taking Bones’ orders.

“I would not advise exercise until you have partaken in sufficient nourishment,” he says firmly.

There’s no arguing with that tone of voice.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Jim says, grinning.

Spock nods solemnly and allows Jim to pass, following him out into the corridor and falling in step beside him.

“Besides, I gotta find someone who’ll spar with me, first. Sounds weird, but most of the crew are funny about fighting me. Guess they’re worried about injuring a superior officer.”

“Perhaps,” Spock suggests, neatly avoiding Jim’s obvious hint for company like the pro he is, “Or perhaps they are simply aware of your spontaneity during physical combat.”

“Aw,” Jim says. “You think I’m spontaneous, Spock?”

“I had intended to phrase my assessment in a way that could not be interpreted as judgemental or complimentary.”

“And here I was gonna thank you for noticing.”

“It is my duty as first officer to notice, Captain,” Spock says.

Jim comforts himself by digging into a large indulgent breakfast without the threat of Bones showing up to mention brain food and health concerns and whatever else he likes to lecture about. Protein this and energy that, things that Jim didn't really get much of as a kid, making him even less amenable to that kind of fussing now. Spock, at least, doesn’t bring it up, though Jim can be reasonably certain he’s memorising every last breakfast item to report back to Bones later.

Spock waits until Jim’s finished, returning his empty tray to the replicator, to blindside Jim completely.

“If you require a partner in the gymnasium, I am currently without other, more pressing business to which I must attend,” he says.

“That an offer, Spock?”

“Merely a statement of fact,” Spock replies.

“And it’s not judgemental or complimentary. Yeah, Spock, I’ve got the hang of it now. I thought you’d never ask.”

“Had you required my presence-”

“C’mon,” Jim says, clapping Spock on the chest. “Let’s _do_ this.”

He tries not to think about what it’ll be like - sparring with a Vulcan when they’ve established a link, mind-to-mind. If they’ll operate as one, or if it won’t be as different from any other fight as Jim’s secretly hoping it will be. He strips off his shirt after another ill-timed moment of uncertainty, still thinking about the way Spock’s eyes lingered on his bare skin earlier.

He’d changed out of his uniform trousers into sweatpants the previous evening, before he had started on his paperwork, and is _way_ more comfortable sparring in them than the hideous regulation red leggings. Just the thought of the clingy, unforgiving material is enough to make him shudder as he carefully stretches out his arm muscles. He moves onto his legs and takes equal care with them; there’s no way he’s getting hurt, not if he can avoid it, because that would mean disturbing Bones, and calling Bones back from shore leave because of something stupid that could have been avoided is basically the equivalent of crawling into a dark cave with a pointy stick, looking for sleeping bears to poke.

Only with more hyposprays involved.

Spock emerges from the changing rooms; he had, of course, shown up to Jim’s quarters that morning in full uniform, and the only clue Jim had been given as to what he was changing into was a glimpse of black cloth.

It wasn’t surprising that black cloth was all he had seen, Jim reflects now, as the entire outfit is literally _just_ black cloth. It is a loose-fitting robe that billows impressively as Spock walks, cinched at the waist with a carefully knotted tie and an embroidered vertical panel on the left breast.

Jim taps the same spot on his own chest as Spock approaches the mats, “Isn’t that ancient Vulcan script? What does it say?”

“It is my name – S’chn T’gai Spock.”

“Shuh-choon tuh-gye?”

Spock’s mouth quirks at the corner in what Jim is sure is a smile. “I believe the phrase is ‘not even close’.”

Definitely a smile.

Jim laughs and wags a finger at his first officer, “I’m gonna get it one day, you wait. Even if I have to bribe Uhura to give me lessons.”

“I have every faith in your linguistic capabilities.” Spock raises an eyebrow when Jim begins to pace restlessly on the mat, “Are you sufficiently warmed up?”

“Ready and raring.” Jim cracks his knuckles, “Before we start, though, are we using...?” he gestures vaguely to his temple, “Because, you know, I think it could be beneficial? Keeps you on your toes if your opponent knows what you’re about to do. Gotta be... _spontaneous_.”

“As a training exercise it does have merit, yes. Very well. If you wish to find my thoughts, you will have to seek them, but I will not shield them from you. Is this what you wish?”

Jim concentrates on the presence in the back of his mind, feeling his awareness of it grow and expand. _Sounds good._

_Very well. Are you ready to begin?_

Jim plants his feet shoulder-width apart, bends his knees at little and, specifically because he knows Spock will not get the reference, stretches out an arm and makes a beckoning motion with his hand.

_Let’s do this._

Jim shakes his head, rolling out his shoulders before he makes the first move. A quick jab from the left, which Spock easily parries with his right forearm, Jim’s wrist glancing off lean muscle. There’s a swish of that heavy fabric.

Jim reminds himself that Vulcans don’t sweat.

Humans don’t have that same luxury; there’s already a bead of sweat at Jim’s temple, damp on his speeding pulse. He jabs from the right this time and Spock meets him halfway again, the perfect moment of pure contact. What Jim chooses, Spock predicts.

Jim flicks the sweat away from his temple, falling back into a comfortable crouch. It’s common knowledge that the best defence is a good offence - hell, Jim’s lived his life by that credo - but if Spock’s expecting Jim to come after him, he might as well take his own advice. He bobs lightly on his feet, knees bent and hands lightly curled into fists. Spock regards him coolly, stature strong and stable as usual, a calm, solid figure who makes no excess movement but flicks out limbs in deadly graceful swipes. He has what seems like infinite patience and he _waits_.

There is something predatory about it. There is no insecurity, no concern that he may be caught off guard - that he may not be entirely in control of everything that is happening. Jim isn't sure whether it's terrifying or awesome.

This is Spock, so probably both.

Jim darts forwards. Spock dodges in a single swift step. Jim paces, circles the mat. Spock makes no move but to incline his head to keep Jim in his peripheral vision. A fist flying towards shrouded ribs is blocked by a strong wiry arm that might as well have been made of concrete for all it gives. For the first time, Spock strikes back, jabbing with the side of his hand.

Simple. Efficient. Minimal skin-on-skin contact.

But it still leaves Jim wheezing and staggering.

He needs an opening. Usually when it comes to fights he acts on instinct and gut feeling and usually that gets him through, but being spontaneous isn't enough here. Not with Spock, who knows him so well. He needs to-

He needs to _think_ . Specifically, he needs  _Spock's_ thoughts.

_You would do well to practice what I believe humans call a "poker face", especially considering I have access to your thoughts._

Jim laughs,  _Maybe. Maybe I'm just bluffing._

_I find that...unlikely._

Jim charges towards him, doing his best to keep his mind blank and simultaneously divert his mental energy into focusing on the presence of Spock. Spock sidesteps, extending an arm and catching Jim heavily in the stomach; Jim manages to repay it with a weak but on-target jab in the ribs. They end up either side of the mat, warily watching each other.

The blow leaves him wincing and huffing but it is a sacrifice that reveals exactly what he needs; a tell. A split second before Spock acted there was...a ripple, a mental echo that without words gave a physical instruction. He barely has time to register this before Spock is moving again with ruthless efficiency. Jim feels the ripple in his mind and grabs for it, understands the intention, then moves in response, one arm lifting to block and the other swiping for Spock's neck.

It is an attempt, though not a successful one because as he brings his hand around, in the speed of his frantic split-second decision, he misjudges the angle, the tips of his fingers catch in the dark silky sleeve and the momentum of his swing combined with Spock’s instinctive pull away is enough to cause it to rip.

Both of them freeze. Jim's mind is still ensconced so deeply in Spock's that an image, what he realises later is a memory, flashes unbidden across his mind’s eye. A dark-haired woman who wears her age well, draped in a maroon headscarf, tall, slim, regal and warm, not Vulcan but of Vulcan, smiles as she extends arms full of sleek black embroidered robe towards him. It is gone again in an instant but the intensity of feeling surrounding it is enough.

The robe was a present from Spock's mother.

Jim recoils, jumping back and cringing, projecting  _sorry/shame/embarrassment_ across the mindlink in what is probably a nauseating cocktail of emotion for a telepath. When Spock doesn't move he adds, feebly, aloud, “Oh my god, Spock, I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Jim,” Spock catches his wrist in a firm Vulcan grip; his palm is cool on Jim's clammy skin, “I am not, as you believe me to be, angry with you. Whilst I will admit there is some...sentiment attached to it, it is simply material, and it can be mended.”

Jim glances down at Spock’s hand, which is holding his wrist a little less tightly now, “You’re not mad at me?” he mumbles.

“I believe I already expressed that I am not,” Spock confirms, releasing his hold. He steps away and begins to untie the sash at his waist, “However, I would prefer to avoid the possibility of further damaging my robe.”

Suddenly, Jim’s not sure whether this whole sparring thing is a good idea, considering Spock’s taking off his robe, taking off _clothes_ , and there’s plenty of emotion where that’s concerned that Jim would prefer not sharing over their mindlink. It’s open, a raw, pulsing, shared beat; it’s the feeling of Spock’s breath in Jim’s lungs and vice versa. It’s incredible, not like anything else in the galaxy - and the last thing Jim wants to do is ruin it by broadcasting exactly what he’s thinking when he sees the green flush on Spock’s bare, pale skin.

Jim rubs the back of his neck, flicking sweat off his skin. He scrapes his scalp with his blunt fingernails to ground himself in the present and maybe punish himself for staring while he’s at it.

Spock’s not wearing a shirt; he’s got those lean, stretch leggings on that suit him a hell of a lot better than they do Jim, and if he was having trouble concentrating before, there’s no chance now. He might as well fall down onto his back on the mat and let Spock have his way with him.

Yeah. Definitely not the kind of thoughts he needs to be having now.

_Jim?_

Even Spock’s internal voice is quiet, cool, probing but also respectful. Jim clears his throat out loud, which disrupts the silence more than the muted creaking of the mat.

_Never seen you all heated up before, Spock. That’s all. You ready for round two?_

Jim forces a grin onto his face. It holds. Spock braces himself, all narrow, sharp lines and feline grace and bare chest and the slightest, sallow-green flush around his nipples.

Jim’s doomed.

But then, he always has been. 

*

_Captain's Log, Stardate: 2261.176. Captain James T "Big Fat Bruise" Kirk here. Never complain to a Vulcan about your other sparring partners going too easy on you. No holds barred. It's just..._

_Wow._

_Uh, intense. Ahem._

_I'm okay though, nothing I need to call Bones about, thank_ god _. I nipped down to medbay to borrow one of the hand-held regenerators for the worst of the bruises and I can tell you, Doctor M'Benga is an angel in science blues._

_Everything's going fine up here, though I don't think I'll ever get used to how empty the ship is with only two thirds of the crew. Empty and quiet._

_Gives a guy plenty of time to think..._

_Maybe too much time._

_Kirk out._

_*_

Jim flops back on his bed, then rolls over and buries his face in the pillow and absolutely does not think about Spock.

Not him topless. Not him in those leggings. Not even him in full uniform, standing calmly beside the captain’s chair, pulling that expression that isn't quite a smile but communicates a truly extraordinary amount of warmth for a Vulcan. Warmth and reassurance. If Spock were human, it might mean something like _I got your back_ , but as Spock is Vulcan, it means  _I am your friend_. And that means a whole lot more. 

They've come a hell of a long way since Nero.

He groans and tries to stamp down the warmth swelling in his chest at the thought. He can't feel like that, not so strongly, not with Spock's mind separated from his by such a thin veil. He's not even sure what the feeling _is_ , let alone what it means, and he can't afford to dwell on it if there's even the slightest chance Spock might pick up on it. It’s too risky and at this point in the five year mission there's far too much at stake. 

Jim rolls onto his back and adjusts the towel draped loosely around his hips so that he's not lying on a damp patch. Instead of working on his backlog of paperwork that afternoon, he'd elected to use up nearly his entire month's quota of water on a long proper aqua-shower and then lie morosely on his bed trying to straighten out his thoughts without emoting so hard about anything that it bleeds through to Spock.

The sparring session that morning had wound up with far more physical contact than he was sure he could cope with; apparently some higher power out there hated him because, _really_ , half-naked wrestling with his hot-as-hell first officer who could hear his every thought and sense his every feeling? _Cruel._ Although, he supposed, it was probably his fault for suggesting it.

Hey, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Strengthening their bond, that is. Learning to fight together as one. What command team wouldn't want that, right? 

Jim lets out a loud sigh. 

At any rate, smooth Vulcan hands on his skin and a warm Vulcan body against his - sometimes just brushing, sometimes colliding, once or twice pressing him down into the mat hard enough to leave him gasping for air - had sent his blood rushing to the point where he called an end to the session after only half an hour and fled back to his quarters. He would pay for it later, undoubtedly, when he would be forced to emerge to get dinner and Spock would give him that eyebrow-knitted look over his bowl of plomeek soup or plate of gross-looking salad, but he’d desperately needed to pull himself back together.

Ten minutes of standing in a cold shower had been what it had taken to will his hard-on away. He had no idea how long it was going to take for him to recover from the sheer intensity of their mental connection. 

But he’s good now. Damp and good. Cranky and damp, but still good. The thing with Spock is always gonna be the thing with Spock, complicated by a working relationship, a messed-up history, Spock Prime’s interference-and now, a baby that is and isn’t theirs.

Jim closes his eyes. If he’s not thinking about Spock, the weight of Spock’s hold on the wrestling mat and the ache of Jim’s muscles in hungry response, then he’s thinking about the kid. He has no clue which state of over-thinking things is worse. They both make his heart race and his face flush, but for different reasons.

He’s thought about contacting his mom to let her know. He could write it off as a joke, even, that he’s finally going to make her the dreaded g-word: _grandma_. But then he wouldn’t be able to soft-pedal the weight of the whole thing, and God knows he might not be able to keep his voice from breaking if they had a face-to-face transmission for Jim to explain himself.

_Yeah, Mom, you heard me. I had a baby with my Vulcan first officer. Oh, and my CMO was involved. I’m totally serious._

He supposes that’s a conversation he’ll need to have eventually.

At least, if he’s thinking about the kid-stuff, then he’s not thinking about the Spock-stuff-not directly. And it’s a lot easier to explain the former to Spock; the latter’s not something Jim can let jeopardise the mission, their friendship, everything they’ve managed to build despite Jim’s tendency to knock things down the second he’s made them. Sand castles; reputations; you name it.

So: kid-stuff it is. Not Spock’s thighs tightening around Jim’s hips, or the swift, competent, ruthlessness of every well-measured movement, the bruises Spock left on Jim’s skin.

He touches one, above the hip, on the right side. It’s sore, but it’s real, and Jim’s never minded that feeling. It tests his limits-shows him what his body is, where it ends and where it begins, more than anything else.

Shit.

 _Babies_ , Jim thinks.  _Helpless, perfect little kid that’s got a piece of me inside. Alive, because of me. But not mine. And that’s for the best. Wouldn’t know what to do with a- Why the hell did I think this was a better topic, anyway?_

 _Right_ , Jim thinks.  _Spock’s thighs._

And his hands; his eyes; the line of his mouth; the even starker line of his shoulders; the strength in his touch; the silence of his mental library; how damn close they’ve become. Even then, Jim knows he isn’t satisfied with it. He knows he wants more.

*

Jim's there several days later when the first crew cohort begins to beam up; he feels like an overprotective parent - okay, bad choice of words, he _is_ a parent, technically, but not- not really- god, right, that's something to avoid thinking about in public, uh - counting the crewmembers back onto the ship and smiling brightly at each one as they file out of the transporter room. It’s taken him a year, and hours pouring over lists and holo thumbnails, but he is able to put a name to almost every face he sees. 

Judging by the brief glimpse into Ambassador Spock's memories he was given on that fateful day on Delta Vega, he is still a far cry from the legendary captain his other self once was. A man who possessed both cunning and wisdom, who held the highest level of respect even from those who hated him and commanded a crew whose love and trust he had earned through years of kindness and fair treatment. If he is honest, he knows he has no hope of ever becoming that man.

But, he thinks, as a nervous young ensign practically glows with delight when Jim gets xir name right on his first try, perhaps he’s on the right track.

As the highest ranking crewmember in the cohort, Bones is in the last group to beam up and, once materialised, gestures with his PADD in Jim's direction and calls across the room, “That's everyone, checked 'em all off.”

Jim gives him a thumbs up then grins as he notes Doctor Marcus on the transportation pad beside his friend. Things can't have gone too badly then, especially as, after Bones' greeting, they immediately resume the conversation they must have been having before they beamed up. He catches the tail end of it as they approach - 

“No, corobomite is far too unstable, even with a silicone case to protect it,” Doctor Marcus shakes her head, blonde hair swinging about her face with the movement, “And the acidic levels of the soil would break it down in a matter of minutes, if it didn't explode first.”

Bones frowns thoughtfully, “Menfarium has almost the exact same properties as corobomite, and is a helluva lot more stable, but it’s useless oxygenated and is also about six times the price. The only other option would be-”

“-Protomatter. Exactly, and you'd have to be a _total_ idiot to even think about that.”

They halt their conversation as they meet Jim at the door. He gives them both his trademark Captain Grin and gets a polite but warm smile from Carol and a fond roll of the eyes from Bones. “Doctors,” he says cheerily, “Good time? Tour as exciting as you hoped? Scientists as gorgeous as advertised?”

Carol laughs, “The labs were absolutely wonderful and Doctor Cài was so helpful with my research demands - I could have stayed there for weeks just testing out their thermonuclear scanning equipment!”

“I won't lie, their labs were pretty excitin' and I definitely wouldn't have said no to another couple days down there,” Bones' gaze shifts to Carol beside him, “Though I have to say, the _Enterprise_ is definitely winnin’ in the gorgeous scientist department.”

Jim resists the urge to groan aloud. 

Barely. 

Carol’s cheeks flush, but then her smile turns sly and she elbows Bones good-naturedly in the ribs, “I’ll have to let Commander Spock know you think so.”

Jim barks out a laugh as Bones splutters. Despite her comment, judging by the way Carol bites her lip, the Painfully Obvious Southern Cheeseball Tactic is going down pretty well with her. And who is he to argue with results?

“Well, I'm glad you two had a good time, although I'm afraid I need to steal Doctor McCoy away.” Jim explains apologetically.

“Of course. Captain,” she nods politely, then shoots a coy look at Bones, “Doctor McCoy.”

Jim laughs and slaps Bones on the back once she's out of earshot and they're heading down the corridor in the opposite direction, “ _Well_.”

Bones scowls, but it’s clearly for show as his eyes are bright and he can only hold it for a few seconds before his mouth is twitching up at the corners, “I don't go kissin’ and tellin’, Jim,” he says loftily, “You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Also, you know, I'm her boss, it would be pretty inappropriate.”

Bones actually stops in the corridor to stare at him, “Who are you and what have you done with James T Kirk?”

Jim tries not to bristle and doesn't entirely succeed, “Maybe I wanna do this by the book. Maybe I wanna do right by my crew. You got a problem with that?”

“’Course not. I'm just surprised,” he adds quickly, “Pleasantly surprised, I mean. Good choice.”

The tension in the air deflates and so does all of Jim's bravado, energy spent on smiling and greeting and putting names to faces all morning leaving him suddenly exhausted. He's known Bones long enough and well enough that the pretences could not matter less. Thank god. He sighs and slings an arm around his oldest friend's shoulders.

“Can we head over to medbay? I've had the  _worst_ kind of headache all day and nothing I've taken will shift it.”

“Must be bad, if you’re willin’ to cop to it that easy.” Bones’ scowl is real this time, making the premature lines at the corners of his eyes deepen, “Could’ve told me about it _before_  we shot the shit.”

“That’s how you talk to your captain, huh, Doctor?”

“Go ahead, write me up for insubordination. Let’s see how long you last without me.”

The moment they enter medbay Bones’ shift into CMO-mode is swift as a switch being thrown. Before Jim has time to tease him, a tried and true method for headache dispersal that has nothing to do with tests and hypos, he’s on a bed, Bones taking his readings.

The headache’s worse, sharp and mean, stabbing clean through Jim’s head from one temple to the other. Jim digs his thumbs against the pressure points while Bones’ back is to him, checking the charts, then drops his hands to his thighs when Bones turns around.

Bones arches an eyebrow. Jim offers a wobbly grin.

No need to worry the doctor anymore than he already is - another sign of Jim’s maturation process. Active attempts to prevent Bones from going grey before the five year mission is over.

“Well, I can’t say anythin’s wrong with you,” Bones tells him. “Aside from the usual.”

“Which is?”

“Reckless self-endangerment and a penchant for _adventure_ ,” Bones replies, shaping the word with disgust like it’s the worst curse he knows. “Deadly enough, in its own right, but so far, I haven’t managed to find a cure.”

Jim chuckles. The pain in his head only intensifies, like it’s reacting to his amusement, insisting on making him acknowledge the pain.

Bones is over Jim before Jim realises he’s bent double, covering his ears with his hands.

“Just a headache,” Jim croaks. 

“Just a headache, my ass!” Bones snarls, firmly pushing Jim back so he's lying down again, and snatching up his tricorder, “How long has this been goin’ on, Jim?”

Jim is saved from having to answer by Spock bursting into medbay; he doesn't actually hear or see his first officer arrive over the fierce clanging in his head, but the lingering sixth Vulcan sense feels Spock's approach, like a blurred shape of warmth moving towards him.

“Spock? What the- dammit, not you too!”

“Doctor McCoy, please desist, I must speak with the captain immediately.”

Jim cracks an eyelid to see an ashen-faced, clearly troubled Spock trying to wrestle himself out of Bones' grip, with far less success than one would expect considering the strength his Vulcan heritage affords him. Jim forces himself to sit up, biting back a low groan from spike of pain it brings him.

“Spock?”

Bones stabs a finger at him, “You! Lie back down!”

Jim ignores him. He’s good at that.

“Captain, if you would allow me, I can alleviate your discomfort immediately-”

Spock finally breaks free of Bones and steps close enough to the bed for Jim to grab his wrist. His vision whites out as the pain immediately becomes razor sharp in his mind - it is as if his brain is a radio filled with buzzing static and the physical contact with Spock tuned it into the exact channel. It is pain, but not only pain; he is flooded by a tidal wave of muddled emotion, _fear/not-safe/panic/fear_ -

And then, a featherlight touch to his cheek, and then blessed blurry relief. The pain in his head is not gone, just muffled, but it is a release.

Jim realises he is sobbing. Big, loud, baby sobs that are dissolving into hiccups. Bones' hand is warm and solid between his shoulderblades as he eases him back down onto the bed. He feels weak and groggy and wrung out, though, as he forces himself back to a semblance of calm, one coherent thought clings to him.

“It’s her,” he pants, scrubbing clumsily at his face with his sleeve, as he squints up at Spock, “That was- god, I could feel everything she-”

Spock nods at him, infuriatingly calm, “I have erected mental barriers in your mind, Captain, which should decrease the intensity of what you receive. If you rest now you should be able to resume normal duty within the hour.”

Jim shoves himself up into a sitting position, ignoring Bones' furious yelp. Without the pain clouding it, his mind can properly focus for the first time all day, “Spock, you've got to take them down again - she's calling out to us! There's something wrong and she _needs_ us!”

“What the hell is goin’ on?” Bones yells, slamming a fist down on the side of the bed. Spock doesn't even turn to look at him, mouth set in a grim line.

“Captain, I will not remove the barriers; you will be no help to her or anyone else if you cannot even stand, much less command a starship.”

“Then you agree that she’s in trouble?”

Spock glances at the floor in the closest a Vulcan can get to sheepishness, “I admit, the potential reason behind such aggressive negative projections does leave me somewhat concerned, and I was relying on your worrying tendency to succumb to your obsession with-”

“Will someone tell me what the _hell_ is goin’ on here?” Bones snarls, stepping between them, “Both of your vitals are way off, not to mention the readings I’m gettin’ on your adrenaline, Jim, and I am not clearin’ either of you for duty before I get a decent explanation!”

Jim turns to him, mind racing with half-formed plans, “Vulcan kids can project their emotions to their closest biological kin. The test tube baby just sent out a huge mental SOS.” He glances back to Spock, “Can you contact her? Project back?”

“I can project a very basic-”

“We can't just up and leave, Jim! We’re halfway through shore leave and don't even know where she is - she could be on the other side of the damn galaxy!”

“Then we find someone who _does_ know where she is, and then we find her.”

Jim hauls himself off the bed and staggers towards the medbay doors. Bones and Spock race after him, each grabbing one of his arms as he almost loses his footing. He looks into the dark eyes of his first officer and sets his jaw.

“Spock, tell her we're coming to get her.”

He doesn't need the special Vulcan connection between his mind and anyone else's to know that Spock's going to do as he's told - with or without an appended  _Captain's Orders, Mr. Spock_. 


	7. Chapter 7

The hours pass, and they're doing all they can to get to her. Waiting on news; following up leads; burning every last flare of hope. All the crew know is that Commander Spock intercepted an urgent Vulcan distress call and it makes Jim’s heart clench that not a single crewmember has complained about shore leave being postponed.

It was one thing, Jim thinks, knowing that his crew was his family and that _that_ family was in danger. It was easier then: the terms of sacrifice, the measure of action, what to do and how to stop thinking so he could do it. He would sacrifice himself again in a heartbeat to keep them safe, no matter how many times Bones made him swear up and down he wouldn't pull a 'fool-ass stunt like that again - you hear me, Jim?' 

But this is different. 

Spock clears his throat and Jim looks up, sitting in the break room at the table where their untouched chessboard awaits Spock's next move. Jim sighs; he doesn't grin. He sure as hell doesn't relax.

“We have charted a course for the last-known whereabouts of a transport vessel believed to be carrying…” Spock pauses. It's minute, but it's real, and Jim sits forward in his chair, “...the individual for whom we share concerns,” he concludes at last. 

The baby had been adopted by the Vulcan ambassadors to Andoria, who, as a pair of bonded women of healthy breeding age, had considerable pressure on them to set aside their careers in order to aid the repopulation effort. It was an unfair expectation, but logical from a Vulcan perspective.

Instead, they had applied to adopt. Spock hadn't said anything, but Jim got the distinct impression that a child three-quarters human wasn't exactly… appealing to a Vulcan population looking for a new generation to carry their heritage. Seliea and T'Mir had not seemed concerned by this which was one of the main reasons they had been selected as parental candidates, another thing Spock had not voiced out loud but Jim had interpreted from the defiant look in his eye; if anyone knows how xenophobic Vulcans can be, it’s Spock, and it warms Jim to see how strongly Spock is fighting to ensure his childhood is not repeated with this child.

Seliea and T’Mir had taken the baby, now named T’Androma, into their care three and a half months ago, and that was the last Spock had heard from any of them.

Jim shakes his head. “You can say it, you know.”

“That I 'can' does not necessarily indicate that I must.”

“You must,” Jim says, “I mean, you _should_.”

“These stressors are difficult for one who is not accustomed to weathering their demands,” Spock replies. “It will take time and practice before you are able to remain-”

“Remain what, Spock? Calm when I know our daughter's in danger?”

Spock has no ready response for that. Jim wishes he hadn't asked in the first place, in a voice that now seems too damn loud. 

They spend nearly an hour playing chess, stilted and anxious, barely speaking. Jim hasn't felt this painfully awkward around his first officer since...well. Since _Nero_. 

An awful kind of fear churns in his gut at the thought of losing all the progress they've made since then. The idea of Spock cutting himself off would have once frustrated him, but now it terrifies him. And they've had this conversation _before,_ and he thought that Spock had  _understood._ It feels like a vicious circle of Jim endlessly chasing, never quite reaching.

The air is so thick with tension that the bosun's whistle almost makes him jump out of his skin. He dives for the panel on the wall, gasping into it, “Yes?”

Sulu's voice, professionally calm but clearly concerned replies, “Captain, we're almost at the co-ordinates, but, uh…”

“But what?” Jim snaps.

“Captain, there's nothing here but miles of debris.”

Jim's blood runs cold. He whips his head around to Spock who has, as always, appeared at his shoulder. Jim steps aside to allow him access to the terminal.

“Lieutenant, have the scanners picked up any larger debris pieces, or any parts of ship hull?” he asks calmly although, perhaps, a little sharper than usual.

“Nothing so far, but rescanning…”

Jim can hear the background noises of the bridge; the low whirr of the scanners, the soft beeping of the computers relaying information, the squeaking of chairs being swivelled and footsteps as crew members move around. Usually, they are sounds which calm him. They are the sounds of his home, the one space where he ultimately _belongs_.

He holds his breath and forces himself to trust in the abilities of his more than capable crew, when all he wants is to storm up to the bridge and pour over the scanners himself.

“Keptin!” Chekov now, his voice pitched high with excitement, “Keptin, the scanners have found something - it looks like part of a small ambassadorial ship, mostly intact, it is the biggest thing ve can-”

“Set course for it, scan it, scan everything around it. Call Dr. McCoy and have him report to bridge immediately. I want a security team ready to go by the time we get there. Get Scotty in the transporter room.”

If anyone has any concerns about this plan, they wisely do not voice them, and even if they did, Jim is already in the turbolift, Spock stepping in neatly beside him.

Jim drums his fingers against the door as the floors of his ship flick past, before glancing at his first officer out of the corner of his eye, “You'd be able to tell if she wasn't okay, right?” he asks quietly.

“Jim,” Spock says, and his voice is almost gentle, “Her vitals are at healthy levels and, aside from the emotional distress, she is...fine.”

“Fine.” Jim repeats to himself.

The doors to the bridge open and they step out together.

Jim ignores his chair and marches straight to the railing, leaning heavily on it as he examines the vidscreen, knuckles white from his grip. “Report.”

Sulu pivots to face him, “Hull plating seems to be intact; too thick to scan for life signs, life support is likely still functional but we can’t be sure at this distance. Looks like a botched hit-and-run pirate raid, sir.”

“Trying to hail them but nothing on any channel, Captain, I suspect their communications have been deactivated,” Uhura calls from behind him. He doesn’t turn to look at her, but from the way she hesitates before continuing he can tell she’s confused, “I’m, uh, not sure how they got that distress beacon to Commander Spock, but it seems like it was the last thing they were able to send.”

Jim makes a mental note to explain the full situation to the whole bridge crew as soon as possible - after all the shit they’ve followed him into, they deserve to know. A crew that doesn’t trust their captain’s orders and cannot justify his actions isn’t really a crew, it’s colour-coded tyranny.

He glances over his shoulder at Spock, “Thoughts?”

“It is definitely a Vulcan ship, Captain. Likelihood of it belonging to the Ambassadors is 83%. However, I would caution-”

“Looks like a trap?”

“...Indeed.”

Jim drums his fingers on the rail, then pushes himself back decisively, “We're going anyway. Sulu, I want you at the helm with Chekov - I need your fancy moves in case these hypothetical pirates decided to hang around,” he turns, “I want Mister Scott standing by in the transporter room in case we have any medical emergencies that need urgent beaming back, so Lieutenant Uhura, the bridge is yours.”

Uhura looks startled for a second, but quickly recovers, snaps off a salute with an “Aye, sir,” then moves to take the chair. Despite the tension holding his chest like a vice, Jim is pleased to see Chekov and Sulu offering her supportive smiles and thumbs up.

“Your priority is this ship, Uhura,” he tells her gravely, “The moment it looks like trouble I want you to focus on doing whatever is necessary to secure the safety of the _Enterprise_ before you even _think_ about coming back for us.”

She nods, “Understood, sir.”

There's something glinting in her dark eyes that tells him she'll be coming back for them, come hell or high water. On another day, another mission, he might have brought her up on it, thrown in some banter to see her grin at him, but today he just nods and claps a hand on her shoulder briefly. He trusts her.

He and Spock leave the bridge to a chorus of well wishes.

Getting their suits fitted and checked takes an agonisingly long time. Bones is still grumbling under his breath as they begin to beam over.

The ship they arrive on is a wreck, trashed in what looks like a phaser fight, but miraculously the life support is still fully functional and there are no hull breaches. Jim pulls off his helmet and tucks it under his arm, then kneads his temple with his knuckles; the moment they appeared on the ship, the pressure in his head had increased.

They’re in the right place, then.

The thought fills him with both dread and excitement. Mostly he feels sick. He bounces from foot to foot, desperate to move but knowing he needs to wait for the security team to sweep the area first - it’s the kind of protocol he hates, though years of experience have tempered his frustration and bolstered his caution. He repeats to himself in his head what Spock told him - she’s fine, she’s _fine_.

Spock scans the corridor with his tricorder in a smooth arc, “Five life signs: two Vulcan, two Andorian, one Vulcan-human. They seem to be concentrated in the living space of the ship, in the next room.”

The security team marches ahead, Jim half jogging to keep up with the long-legged gaits of Spock and Cupcake.

The living space is nothing short of concentrated carnage. Jim has to carefully step over three Andorian bodies and one Vulcan before he even gets through the door. He grips his helmet tighter and focuses on the pressure in the back of his mind, tries to project something soothing through the mental barriers Spock created. He hopes it gets through.

“My god,” Bones breathes, scanning each body so that the appropriate details can be logged with the Vulcan and Andorian councils, taking care to treat each body with respect and due solemnity. “This is a warzone. What the hell happened? What kind of idiot starts a firefight in a ship as small as this?”

“Here!” Cupcake bellows, and Jim scrambles over with Bones hot on his heels.

It’s a Vulcan woman, slumped on the floor behind a table, her green blood pooling on her long red outer robe and turning it a sickly brown. She stirs when Jim crouches next to her, the act of opening her eyes a physical effort, but to his surprise when she focuses on him her gaze is clear and calm. Some kind of recognition stirs in her when she sees his face - she flaps her arm feebly but frantically towards one of the doors, suddenly agitated.

“T’Mir,” she rasps, “She- bedroom- _baby_ -”

“Easy, easy now, I gotcha,” Bones murmurs, somehow managing to simultaneously gently restrain the weakly struggling woman and ready a hypospray.

Spock appears at Jim’s shoulder, “Find T’Mir and T’Androma with the security team, I will stay here and meld with Seliea to establish what happened.”

He’s torn - something about Seliea’s fierce gaze pins him, makes him unable to leave without some kind of response. Human instinct makes him want to clasp her hand to comfort her, reassure her that he’s here to help, but Jim remembers just in time about the whole erogenous zone thing and goes for an elbow squeeze instead, hoping she’s able to read something positive from him through the skin contact.

He pulls away, and finds Cupcake already at the door, phaser ready, gesturing him through. They enter into a short corridor and discover the two still living Andorians; Cupcake calls back to Bones then comms the _Enterprise_ for further medical assistance, passing Jim the phaser to continue on alone.  

He can barely breathe as he approaches the final door - not only from the pressure building in his mind, but from anticipation. He’d set out on this ridiculous mission to rescue Spock’s test-tube baby so _confident_ that it was the right thing to do, so _ready_ to take on this new challenge, and now six months on he’s shaking in his Starfleet-issue boots at the prospect of finding out what colour his daughter’s eyes are.

He sucks in a breath then opens the door.

It’s a bedroom, small and utilitarian. The first thing he notices is the Vulcan woman slumped against the wardrobe, and the wet smears of copper-green across the floor indicating the path she’d dragged herself along. She’s breathing shallowly, irregularly, and his stomach churns when he realises her flowing robes were once white.

“Bones!” he yells over his shoulder. There’s a response he can’t quite make out, but he hears footsteps.

He crouches at her side and reaches out to her shoulder - the moment they touch, her eyes snap open and suddenly his mind is flash-flooded with information.

_Attack - Andorians - Betrayal! - Fight - Babysafetywardrobebabysafetybabybaby-_

Jim gasps, reeling, and as he instinctively snatches his hand back he sees T’Mir’s face go slack in what, even on a Vulcan, is evident relief.

“Bones!” Jim yells desperately, his voice hoarse, almost a scream. T’Mir’s breathing becomes little more than a laboured rattle, her hands twitching convulsively. He’s pushed roughly out of the way as Bones staggers into the room. It takes the doctor less than a second to assess the situation before he’s dropping to his knees and scrabbling in his medkit.

“Oh no you don’t,” Bones snarls, “Not on my watch, you pointy-eared little-”

He wrenches her blood-sodden robes aside and stabs a hypospray in her thigh. The effect is almost immediate - T’Mir’s back arches as she sucks in a huge wheezing breath, and Bones is bellowing into his communicator for an emergency beam-up, and one of the Andorians in the corridor is howling in grief at the sight of a fallen comrade, and Hendorff’s boots thud as he runs in to help and-

Every other sound whites out the moment he hears the baby’s cry.

The wardrobe. His head pounds, the connection refusing to be ignored. He hauls himself to his feet and wrenches open the top cupboard. An empty shelf - another empty shelf - and then there! A mess of writhing blankets, an ongoing scream, one tiny hand emerging clenched in a fist. The angle is awkward, leaning over Bones and T’Mir, but he scoops the baby out of the shelf and brings her tightly to his chest.

Jim hasn’t had much contact with babies during his life, so he does his best to manage the juggling act of holding her without crushing her with one hand, and rearranging the blanket without dropping her with the other. The warm comfort of being cradled seems to calm her somewhat, her screams petering out into a wobbly wail interspersed by hiccups, much to the relief of Jim’s besieged ears. He shifts her into the crook of his arm so he can pull the blanket fully away from her face.

She looks just like a human baby - small round nose in the middle of a small round head, small round cheeks flushed pinky-red in her agitation, tufty dark hair sticking up on the top of her head - all apart from her tiny ears, which curve up into a neat point. The quarter of her belonging to Vulcan.

He feels a goofy grin spread across his face. Highly illogical, Spock would tell him, but he can’t help it, they’re just so - _tiny!_ Tiny tiny Vulcan ears! He’s never seen a Vulcan baby before and he thinks he knows why they’re not shown around as much as human babies; any other race bearing witness to such small pointy ears would likely erupt into an uncomfortably illogical show of emotion.

Like he’s doing now.

She hasn’t stopped crying, he realises, and her face twists as if she’s considering a scream again. It suddenly occurs to him that his only source of baby-aid, Bones, has beamed back to the ship with T’Mir, and that the rest of the party are probably waiting for him. Awkwardly, he tries to bounce her, his mind racing to remember what level of jiggling constitutes comfort without inducing vomiting.

“Hey, heeeey,” he says in a sing-song voice, trying to tamp down his panic, “Hey, _please_ stop crying before the others come in and realise I’m totally incompetent, please stop cry-iiing...”

Without thinking, he reaches out to hold one of her tiny fists-

The mental barriers Spock set up don’t so much crumble as implode.

He’s drowning in unadulterated _feeling_. He’s scared and tired and trapped and not-safe and so confused, so afraid, and he’s reaching, reaching, reaching out, but he can’t find-

Jim tries to hold fast to what he knows is himself. He thinks of gold shirts, his captain’s cabin, the robust curves of his ship, he thinks of his chair and his crew in the yawning abyss of space, Scotty and Chekov and Sulu laughing uproariously over drinks, the way Uhura’s eyes soften when she’s proud of him, Bones grumbling but steadfast at one shoulder and Spock at the other other. He thinks of Spock-

 _Spock_.

_Jim. Calm your mind._

Spock is there.

Jim can feel him there, feel him easing their minds apart, and it’s almost a physical sensation. The tide is going out in this ocean of pure emotion and he’s in the shallows now, he can almost break the surface, he can almost breathe-

He sucks in a huge breath and opens his eyes. He’s sitting on the floor of the bedroom in the ambassadorial ship - he must have staggered and slid his back down the wall - his chest is heaving, convulsively gulping in air, and Spock is kneeling in front of him, both hands on his face, so close Jim could probably kiss him without needing to move. 

Which is precisely why he should _not_ be thinking about it.

Jim swallows heavily. Spock’s eyes dart down to catch the movement.

And then the moment is over.

They move apart simultaneously; Spock lifting his hands and shifting back onto his heels, and Jim clearing his throat, turning his head away. Jim’s heart is pounding and he feels like a coward for a reason he can’t quite explain.

“Engaging with her mind appears to have calmed her,” Spock observes.

“Huh?” Jim blinks, still dizzied by the intensity of the accidental meld. He follows Spock’s gaze down to the bundle in his arms, “Oh, yeah, I...I guess it did.”

T’Androma is staring up at him, chewing thoughtfully on the corner of her blanket, and her eyes are blue.

It's the same electric blue he sees in the mirror every day, the same blue he'd studied year after year in the holo from his dad’s academy graduation. There are a lot of things that mark the baby as human, but those eyes - those are _Kirk_ eyes.

It's good that he's already sitting down, because he probably would have fallen over otherwise. His heart drops into his stomach. His stomach leaps into his throat. He feels like he might be sick from all the internal turbulence but at the same time he wants to laugh, or maybe cry. This little kid is a part of his _family._

Spock must be picking up some of what’s going on in his head through the bond, as he speaks in an unusually gentle tone, “The rest of the party has returned, and Mister Scott is waiting to beam us back to the _Enterprise_. Doctor McCoy will no doubt wish to give T’Androma a medical evaluation; I can debrief you on what I ascertained from the meld with Ambassador Seliea in the medbay.”

He holds out his arms towards Jim. Jim’s brain really must be addled because for a few seconds he genuinely believes Spock is asking for a hug - and then his common sense finally kicks in and, before he can do anything hideously embarrassing, he realises his first officer is gesturing that Jim hand him the baby so he can stand up.

“Good thinking,” Jim says, slowly easing T’Androma over then hefting himself to his feet. Spock takes her as if he’s been holding babies since _he_ was a baby; maybe a little stiffly, but with no hesitation Jim can detect. He remembers his own awkward jiggling and cringes internally. Spock raises an eyebrow at his pause so he responds with his usual self-deprecating grin, “Probably safer in your logical Vulcan hands anyway.”

Spock gives him an odd look, but says nothing. Jim can tell he’s gearing up to dissect the deep psychological reasons behind that one, so he quickly bends down to pick up his helmet from where he’d dropped it in the shock of the meld with T’Mir. By the time he’s stood up again Spock is carefully picking his way down the corridor back to the beam-up point and Jim is spared.

As he follows, helmet tucked under his arm, he wonders if purposefully avoiding what he knows Spock wants to ask makes him a hypocrite.

 _Probably_ , he thinks. But he’s got bigger things to worry about now.

Like the way the ship suddenly violently lists to the side, for example.

Jim’s really glad that Spock took T’Androma, because whilst _he_ trips over a chair and lands on his ass, his first officer’s Vulcan strength and reflexes mean he is able to brace himself against a doorframe as the floor moves beneath their feet.

“The hell was that?” Jim groans, waving off Spock’s concerns and hauling himself back upright. An ominous beeping noise begins from the vicinity of the cockpit which Spock picks his way over to investigate whilst Jim flips open his communicator, “Uhura? What’s going on?”

“Captain, the pirates have returned in a small weaponised starship and are firing on the Ambassadorial vessel,” Uhura’s voice is pitched loud over the sounds of the bridge on high alert but is still professional and level, “Mister Scott believes due to their proximity we cannot fire on them without risking destroying the ship you’re on.”

She must have Scotty on an open channel from engineering, because Jim hears his distant-sounding voice pipe up, “Working on beaming you up, sir, but the shot they just fired shifted you right into the debris field so we’re having a _wee_ spot of trouble with interference...”

“How much trouble?”

“Well, uh, if we cannae re-calibrate let’s just say you might end up with a few limbs in the wrong places.”

Jim blanches, “Focus on the pirates, we can wait.”

Later, when he thinks about it, Jim wonders whether it was his fault for tempting fate, because the moment those words leave his mouth the ship lurches again, the lights go out and an emergency klaxon replaces the beeping.

“Life support failure, estimated 360 seconds of breathable air remaining,” Spock calls across the ship over both the klaxon and T’Androma’s renewed screaming. She appears to be competing with the klaxon for volume.

“Belay that!” He yells into the comm, “Life support is down, we have six minutes of air and only two helmets, we need beam up _now_ , Scotty!”

“Only two-? How many of you are there?”

“Spock and I, and one survivor, a Vulcan baby.”

At the word _baby_ Scotty sucks in a sharp breath and Uhura swears in a language he doesn’t recognise, though she usually goes for Klingon when she’s pissed, so that’s a safe bet. The bustle in the background seems to get more frantic.

“I’m opening a channel to the pirates now, Captain, see if these _petaQ_ can be reasoned with.”

Definitely Klingon then.

_Relay to Lieutenant Uhura that the attackers are Andorian separatists, not pirates. It may be crucial in negotiations._

Spock’s voice is urgent in his mind. Jim doesn’t bother asking how he knows, “Uhura, Spock says these are Andorian separatists!”

“Right, that’s good to know,” Uhura pauses, “We’ll get you out of this, Jim. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The connection cuts out before Jim can protest.

He turns as Spock approaches; T’Androma has quietened down, likely due to mental soothing from Spock, but the klaxon is clearly still bothering her as her eyes are wide and she’s clinging to his shirt. He tries to project cheery thoughts in her direction over the pounding in his head. Considering the situation, he feels surprisingly calm.

_If the rescue attempts fail, you are intending to sacrifice your suit for T’Androma._

Jim sighs. Spock’s voice is level and neutral as usual, but there’s something fierce underneath. Jim doesn’t want to spend what might be the last few minutes of their lives fighting over who gets to sacrifice themselves for their kid, so he fixes Spock with his best _Captain_ look and holds out his helmet.

_You know it’s the logical choice Spock; I died back there in the radiation chamber, it’s just taken a year or two to catch up with me._

_To use a colloquialism you will understand the severity of: bullshit. As a Vulcan I have finer control over my respiratory system and-_

_That'll give you an extra minute, tops, Spock,_ Jim’s mind is racing again. Why does he always feel so much more alive when there's a high chance he might die? There must be something seriously wrong with him psychologically, but he's known that for a long time, _Look, I'm expendable, but the ship needs you, and T’Androma needs you - hell, you said it yourself, there's no other Vulcan-human hybrids so if you're gone, who'll help her stick it to the xenophobes?_

 _Ambassador Spock,_ Spock answers immediately, _And whilst I wish to firmly establish that you are_ not _expendable, Jim, this whole discussion is irrelevant as Mister Scott currently has a 100% success rate in his emergency beaming record._ Spock gives him a scrutinising look, _Is your impulsive intent to sacrifice yourself reflective of your wish to emulate your father?_

Jim isn’t sure whether the heat that rushes to his face is embarrassment or anger. He feels dizzy, his mind still muddled from three unexpected invasions, and the flickering emergency lights and wailing klaxon are only making things worse, _What? This- this isn’t- I’m not suggesting this because I_ want _it, Spock!_ He sees T’Androma watching him, and as he feels tears pricking at his eyes, her face screws up. She must be picking up on his distress through the remains of their raw connection; he sucks in a deep breath and forces it down, _I don’t want this. I don’t want- I don’t want to die._

And there it is, the truth at the centre of it all. He’s still afraid.

“I don’t want to die, Spock,” he whispers.

Spock reaches out to hold his hand. He can’t feel the warmth through their gloves, though Spock’s grip is firm and grounds him. As he squeezes back, the familiar golden light of the beaming up process swirls around them, but Spock holds his gaze, “You’re not going to die, Jim.”

And then they’re back in the transporter room.

There are cheers and yelling around them, and Scotty’s shouting something over to him, expression jubilant, the lights are so bright, and everything is just...too much. The relief shooting through his system makes him feel sick. His knees buckle and he staggers - Spock’s hand transfers to his elbow and holds him steady like an anchor.

“Ensign, escort the Captain to medbay-”

“No, Spock, I’m fine, I just...need a moment,” Jim breathes heavily through his nose to dispel the nausea, then straightens up to the sea of delighted faces, “What happened, Scotty?”

“Oh, Captain, I wish ye’d been here to hear it, it was _amazing_!” Scotty gushes, pushing his eyepiece up onto his head as he runs out from behind the tech desk, “Uhura opening up the channel to those separatists was just an idea to try and stall ‘em whilst we got you out, but she gave ‘em such a talking to - most of it was in Andorian so I didn’t really understand much, but there was more than a few swear words, sir, I can tell ye that, and a great bit about honour, and you _know_ how Andorians get about honour - and would you believe whilst she had the channel open they actually called up the Andorian council to turn themselves in?”

“Mister Scott!” Uhura’s voice yells from the console, “Did you get them?”

Scotty jumps and runs back over to the comm, “Aye, Lieutenant - got the Captain and Mister Spock and the wee one, safe and sound right here on my transporter pad, all thanks to your silver tongue.”

There’s a cheer in the background of the transmission and he can hear Uhura laughing over it, “Thanks, Scotty. Captain, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Jim staggers over to the comm, the nausea dying away in the wake of the infectious delight all around him, “Set us a course for the Itamish system, Acting Captain Uhura; I think it’s time we got back to our shore leave.”


	8. Chapter 8

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE:_ _2261.180, Kirk here. Long time no log._

 _...That sounded_ so _much better in my head._

_So, uh, we have a baby on board now - that seems like a pretty important thing to note. Bones is keeping an eye on her down in medbay. He grumbled about it but I know he loves babies and he’s gonna love having her around. Legally she is the ward of Seliea and T’Mir, the Vulcan ambassadors to Andoria, but biologically…_

_Biologically, she's..._

_I need to get used to saying it outloud._

_Biologically, T’Androma is the daughter of my first officer and I._

_Me ‘n Spock. We've got a baby. The two of us, we have a daughter. Together. She’s here on the_ Enterprise _, in medbay._

 _How fucked up is_ that _?_

_Um._

_It’s been a long day. I'm gonna just...try this one again…_

_Computer, delete-_

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE:_ _2261.180, Captain James T Kirk here._

_After receiving a distress call, we intercepted the Vulcan vessel belonging to the ambassadors to Andoria at 2300 hours. A small group of Andorian separatists had attacked the shuttle with photon torpedoes, intending to take hostages to facilitate political negotiation. However, when the ambassador’s Andorian attaché realised the manner of the situation, he reportedly declared it a betrayal and attacked the separatists with a ceremonial sword, and the separatists responded with phaser fire. The combined efforts of the Andorian security team and the Vulcans successfully subdued the combatants, though not before significant loss of life. There were seven fatalities, all of which have been logged with the Vulcan and Andorian councils so the bodies can be appropriately processed, and we were able to rescue the five survivors for medical treatment._

_The survivors consisted of two members of the Andorian security team, both with minor injuries, Seliea and T’Mir the Vulcan ambassadors who are both in critical condition in medbay, and their adopted daughter T’Androma, who was uninjured, thank fuck._

_Oh, sh-_

_Aaaaand I’m gonna have to start this again. Shit._

_Computer, delete-_

*

Jim groans and tosses the PADD onto his bed, then flops down onto it himself. He feels wrung out. Jumbled up. Like everything in his head has been shaken out then crammed back in again in the wrong places. Even though Spock untangled their minds, Jim’s finding it pretty tough to separate T’Androma’s emotional bleed from how _he_ feels about all this.

And it’s not only second-hand feelings messing him up; it had taken him a few hours to figure out what the weird niggle in the back of his mind, telling him this was all so _familiar_ , meant. He’d ignored it all through the debriefing in medbay, forced it away as he’d sat through several different video conferences to negotiate their return to Itamish III - in order to both finish their shore leave cycle and utilise the medical facilities there - and he’d even managed to keep it at bay as he struggled through the small mountain of paperwork that the ever diligent Yeoman Rand had deposited on his desk that morning. It was half way through the ship’s night cycle before he gave up and went to use up the remains of his aqua-shower allowance. It was in the shower that the introspection he’d been trying to avoid brutally ambushed him.

Tarsus. It felt like Tarsus.

The nauseating cocktail of fear, desperation and confusion. The all-consuming panic. Reaching out for those who are supposed to solve everything and finding no-one able to help. The relief so overwhelming it stops being relief and turns into silent shock or screaming or vomiting. The well-meaning parent turning up to save the day when, with the best will in the world, it’s too little too late and the damage has already been done.

It’s completely different too, obviously. For one thing T’Androma is young enough that it’s unlikely she’ll even remember it. He’s glad about that.

Perhaps this is why he’s been so hellbent on this baby-saving mission, a part of Jim thinks distantly. It’s not about a personal desire to get involved in the kid’s life; just some weird deep psychological impulse refusing to let her be harmed. And he’s achieved that, hasn’t he? She’s got two parents who will keep her safe, which is more than _he_ got growing up. And isn’t that what you’re supposed to do for your kid, make sure their upbringing is better than your own?

Uncle Frank certainly wouldn’t have fought an Andorian with a ceremonial sword to protect him, anyway, so comparatively she’s doing pretty well.

And if that’s all this is - a moral inclination to preserve a child’s well-being - then he can step back now knowing that he’s done his job and not feel a twinge of anything other than satisfaction.

Yeah, that’s a nice thought.

Jim climbs off the bed, walks over to his dresser, and stares at himself in the mirror.

“James Tiberius Kirk,” he mutters wearily, “Who the hell are you trying to fool with this bullshit?”

He sleeps fitfully through the remains of the night cycle and, despite his exhaustion, wakes up an hour before his alarm. The extra time asleep isn't a worth the effort of chasing it, so he pulls on a fresh uniform and heads down to medbay via the canteen.

As he walks through the double doors he's about to call out to Bones, ask him around a mouthful of toast whether he has any stim patches he'd be willing to share, when he notices the good doctor is already occupied. Bones is in his office, taking notes from a console with one hand, and holding T’Androma in the other arm. He's humming something vague and tuneless and bouncing her against his shoulder lightly, but he's focused enough on his notes that Jim suspects Bones isn't even aware that he's moving or making a noise. It’s just instinctive.

Jim thinks about the holo of a little girl with dark hair and a gap-toothed smile that Bones keeps on his bedside table. A little girl who lives back on Earth with her mother and who doesn't see her dad in person more than once a solar year.

Whose dad doesn't see _her_.

Jim smiles a little sadly and decides to leave him to it. She's in safe hands - the safest on the ship, most likely.

He fully intends to head back to his cabin to sort the last of the lingering paperwork, but as he turns he feels a mental nudge towards the other end of the medbay - one of the long-term treatment rooms where Selia are T’Mir are staying.

_Captain, if you have a moment before Alpha Shift?_

_Sure, Spock_.

Jim swallows the rest of his toast then creeps between the empty beds and ducks through the privacy curtains; the long way around, so he doesn’t disturb Bones. He’s had practise, though his motives for being stealthy tend to be more self-serving. Dodging hyposprays and physicals, mostly.

He slips into the treatment room to find Spock sat cross-legged on the spare bed between the Vulcan ambassadors. He appears to be meditating, and the two women either side of him appear to be asleep - or at least, horizontal and quiet with their eyes closed. You never can tell with Vulcans.

Spock opens one eye as Jim enters, reminding him somewhat endearingly of a cat. Jim props a hip against the spare bed and folds his arms.

_Hey, what’s up?_

_Jim; the ambassadors have both begun healing trances to ensure that they recover from their wounds more efficiently. I have been sharing their minds in order to both aid in the healing process and to establish a clear timeline of the events on the ship._

Jim frowns, studying the large bandage across T’Mir’s midsection with its faint green stain. _Are their injuries that severe?_

_They were not so severe initially, however, they did not immediately facilitate a state which would have most effectively ensured their survival._

_I’m gonna be honest, Spock - I have no idea what you mean by that._

Spock takes a deep breath, lets it out again, then opens his eyes. Presumably, Jim thinks, to see his reaction.

_I believe that when Seliea and T’Mir were injured during the skirmish they acted with...emotional bias._

Jim looks quickly between the two Vulcan women, half expecting them both to jump up out of their beds and deny it. _That’s, uh...that’s a pretty serious accusation. Are you even allowed to say that about another Vulcan?_ _What did they do?_

_According to the accounts I have gathered, T’Mir was the first of the Vulcan party to be wounded whilst attempting to disarm their Andorian attaché. Seliea had initially intended to avoid the confrontation as she was, when the skirmish began, holding T’Androma. However, upon seeing her bondmate seriously injured, she reassessed the situation and instructed T’Mir to retreat to the bedroom with T’Androma in order to ensure that, as vulnerable individuals, they could not be manipulated as hostages by the separatists during the fight. As T’Mir was handed the baby and attempted to exit the living area, one of the phaser-wielding separatists took note and aimed to fire at them; Seliea intercepted the shot with her own body and collapsed to the floor. At this point, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar noise and experiencing the combined second-hand pain of both of her guardians through their mind-bond, T’Androma began to scream._

Jim winces, biting his lip, _Shit. Talk about a nightmare situation._

_Indeed. T’Mir, deducing that as the separatists’ initial plan of taking living hostages had failed they would likely decide to kill everyone on the ship instead, fled to the furthest bedroom and hid T’Androma in the wardrobe where you later found her. Even with the Andorian security team covering her escape, she was concerned the separatists would successfully take the corridor - however, rather than concentrating her energy into a light healing trance so that she could be recovered sufficiently to fight the attackers, she instead focused her entire attention on the bond between herself and T’Androma in order to comfort her._

_Oh?_ Jim tries to fight down the amusement at the consternation Spock is projecting.

 _The security team managed to subdue the attackers, although there were only two survivors and both were injured. At this point, the logical decision would have been for Seliea to go into her own healing trance so that she may help save the others and repair the ship. However, what she_ chose _to do was to reach out to T’Mir - who at this point was suffering almost fatal blood loss and going into shock - and transfer her healing energy to her bondmate, almost at the expense of her own life. As such, when we boarded the ship both Seliea and T’Mir were in critical condition; a situation which will likely have long-lasting future health implications, that could have been avoided had they each chosen to act upon logic instead of emotion._

Jim grins and rubs the back of his neck, _I dunno, Spock, I think you’re maybe going to the wrong person about this. It’s kind of nice to know that doing less than logical things for the people you love is a species constant._

Spock regards him thoughtfully, _Then in their situation, you would have done the same?_

_If my child was being traumatised and my bondmate was bleeding out and I had the means to stop both? Yeah, of course. Definitely._

_And you would say that Seliea and T’Mir were being ‘good’ parents, in this situation?_

_Uh,_ Jim squints at him, trying to see what he’s getting at, _Yeah, I would say so?_

_Then I am at a loss to understand why you suggest you would make a poor parent, when you believe that you would act as they did. When you were on the ambassadorial ship you were willing to put her safety above your own, something you yourself listed as an important parental trait. You prove yourself false by your own definition._

Jim lets out a breath through his nose; he really does not want to go through all this again, especially not in medbay with two Vulcans out cold on either side of them and Bones just around the corner.

“Spock, did you drag me back here just to screw with my head, or was there something you wanted?”

He immediately regrets speaking aloud. After a whole conversation speaking silently through their thoughts, his audible voice sounds like he’s yelling through a megaphone. That and the fact that leaving their mental conversation to speak out loud is a clear rejection of their psionic connection; or at least, that is how Spock interprets it, as he feels a flash of confusion followed by Spock’s presence in his mind withdrawing. Weeks of progress undone with one stupid sentence.

“No, shit, I didn’t mean-” Jim scrabbles to reach out again, projecting a mental image of pulling his first officer back, _Sorry, I just...I’m too tired to talk about this stuff right now, Spock. I didn’t sleep much last night and my head is still all scrambled from what happened yesterday. Can we just talk about something else?_

_Jim, do not be concerned. I understand. I withdrew only because I believed that was what you wished for._

And just like that, Spock’s back at his side, both physically and mentally now. Jim offers him a weak smile. Maybe they’re getting better at this friendship thing.

_It was actually the fact that you are ‘scrambled’, as you put it, that I wished to speak to you about._

_Oh yeah?_

Spock gestures that Jim sit opposite him on the medbay bed. _If you are amenable, I wish to give you instruction on maintaining psionic barriers within your mind. Being unable to interact with T’Androma without mental intrusion is clearly impractical, and I believe that as a skill it could, in the future, allow you to protect yourself if we were to encounter any new species with psionic abilities._

_Good idea. Alright, what do I do?_

Spock shifts around on the bed so that they are facing each other, then places his fingers into the now familiar shape on Jim’s cheek. _I will create the walls inside of your mind, and it will be your task to ensure their stability. I suspect that this alpha shift will be uneventful and so, if you consent, I will test your barriers during the shift whilst you practise keeping them from being breached._

Jim gulps as he feels a kind of power rising up around his mind; not the cold walls of steel he was half expecting but warm, organic barriers. His own strength of will ready to defend him. _Is there something specific I need to do or-?_

_Negative. You have in the past proven yourself to be very accomplished in the event of the unexpected - when your consciousness was enveloped in T’Androma’s emotional expression you instinctively understood to focus on that which you knew to be yourself. I would instruct you to follow your instinctive reactions, as often the instinctive is actually an expression of the subconscious mind itself._

Spock withdraws his hand and Jim is so ensconced in their connection that he actually leans forward to follow Spock’s hand for a second until he realises what's going on.

He grins sheepishly to cover his embarrassment, _I'll do my best, Spock._

“I thought I might find you two in here. You straightenin’ out his fool brain, Spock?”

Jim nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden sound in the previously silent room. Bones is standing in the doorway, T’Androma on one hip, the kind of glint in his eyes that suggests Jim will get a thorough teasing later about being huddled on a bed practically nose-to-nose with his first officer. T’Androma is watching everything owlishly, blue eyes wide with the bright curiosity of a baby observing her new world.

“Doctor, as I am sure you are aware, there is nothing amiss with the Captain’s brain. I was merely restoring his psionic fortifications after the unexpected invasions his mind was subjected to yesterday,” Spock says primly.

Jim feels faintly gratified to hear that there's ‘nothing amiss’ with his brain. In Spock's opinion, at least.

“Pity,” Bones says, and before Jim can make a sound of protest, continues, “Can you take little madam for me? One of the engineering kids has a burn needs treatin’ and I need both hands for that,” he passes the baby over to Jim smoothly and confidently, as if he has no doubts in his mind that the Captain of the Starship _Enterprise_ would be able to handle the situation without, say, dropping her, “Bring her with you to alpha shift.”

“Alpha shift? Is that a good idea?” Jim asks, distracted as he tries to arrange T’Androma similarly to how Bones had been holding her rather than the awkward mess he’d made of it on the wrecked ship. He ends up with her propped against his shoulder, a position she doesn’t seem to have a problem with judging by the way she immediately begins to chew industriously on his collar. It's endearing but he has to admit, not entirely pleasant.

“It's exactly what she needs - if she's anythin’ like a full human baby then at this stage of development she'll need plenty of human - well, _humanoid_ \- touch, and she’ll be startin’ to get excited by new colours and sounds,” he grins as Jim wrinkles his nose at the feel of drool seeping through his command golds, “And I dare say havin’ her on the bridge will improve morale.”

“Understood, Doctor. We will return her to medbay at 1100 hours for her next feed.”

Bones regards the three of them for a few moments - Jim holding the baby at his shoulder, rubbing her back absently because it seems like the sort of thing Bones would do, and Spock sitting on the bed close behind him. Jim doesn't need a telepathic connection with his oldest friend to understand what's going through his mind; judging by the way his mouth is twitching up at the corner he's considering a comment that will likely confuse Spock and mortify Jim.

Bones’ kinder impulses must win over because he shakes his head and sighs, “Right. Make sure you keep an eye on anythin’ she grabs, 'cause it'll all go straight in her mouth the second you look away.”

“Got it,” Jim flaps a hand, “Go fix people, Doctor.”

_Doctor McCoy appears to have unwittingly provided us with a far more effective opportunity to test your mental barriers._

_Hmm? You mean I should try joining minds with her again?_ As the door slides closed behind Bones, Jim carefully shifts T’Androma from his shoulder to his lap, holding her under the arms and resting her against his legs.

_Not purposefully, but if you were to cease avoiding skin contact and allow any mental connection to occur by happenstance, it would certainly be a more organic method of testing yourself._

_I’ll give it a go, then,_ Jim thinks, uncertainly. Spock naturally picks up on that.

_Jim, you do not need to be concerned that the events of your last meld will repeat themselves; I will be ready to intervene if necessary, but I believe that now you are prepared you will not need my assistance._

_Thanks, Spock_ , he smiles over his shoulder at his first officer. As he turns, his command track badge moves into T’Androma’s reach and she snatches at it. He has to lean back to avoid her chubby fists, “Nuh-uh, that’s too sharp for you, kiddo.”

She makes a high-pitched sound of protest until Spock passes a stylus into her grabbing range; it is immediately shoved in her mouth. Jim wrinkles his nose, _Unless Bones is happy having all his stationary gummed to death, we need to pick her up some toys on Itamish III. What do Vulcan kids play with at this age? Do Vulcan kids even_ have _toys?_  

 _Vulcan children are stimulated via PADD programs specially designed for their stage of development and rudimentary block-shapes that can be arranged to solve logic puzzles,_ Spock pauses, _I also had a stuffed sehlat toy that my mother made me._

Jim grins, warmth diffusing through him as Spock projects an image of what looks like a cross between a teddy bear and a mountain lion; a little battered from age, but meticulously repaired. Jim sends him back an image of his own, _I had a teddy bear too - mom gave it to me the first time she went off-world without me._

She’d told him that if he ever got scared, all he had to do was talk to the bear and she’d come find him. In retrospect, it was a _really_ stupid thing to tell a kid, although in fairness Winona couldn’t possibly have known how trauma-prone her son would turn out to be. It didn’t save him from Uncle Frank, and by the time shit hit the fan on Tarsus he’d long since given up wishing on pretend summoning powers.

 _I...I lost it._ An image of his grandfather’s house on fire during the Tarsus riots flashes across his mind’s eye unbidden. His throat is tight suddenly, and he’s sure that if he looks at Spock he’ll do something embarrassing, so he focuses on the baby in his lap instead. She’s still industriously chewing the stylus, absently petting the sleeve of his uniform shirt every now and then, as if she’s reaffirming her pleasure with the texture.

 _I lost mine also_. Spock responds solemnly. Jim catches fleeting impressions of a building crumbling, stone shaking apart, a planet imploding in on itself. A deep ache of loss follows the memory, and Jim knows that it’s not the bear Spock’s mourning.

Slowly - slow enough that Spock can’t mistake what he’s doing - Jim inches his hand along the bed and rests his palm very lightly on top of the back of Spock’s hand, hoping he’s managing to convey comfort rather than some kind of inappropriate sexual advance, _We should get T’Androma a stuffed toy. Something to remember us by when she goes back to New Vulcan with her moms. Is that too… sentimental for a Vulcan kid?_

 _She is also three quarters human, Jim,_ Spock reminds him. He doesn’t move his hand away.

*

To say that T’Androma’s presence on the bridge goes down well would be a gross understatement.

They _love_ her.

He introduces her as the daughter of the two diplomats in medbay, who, under doctor’s orders, needs a little TLC whilst her parents are recovering. It’s the closest thing to the truth he can say before things start getting complicated, and it still makes something twinge inside of him to hide the real story from them. He’ll tell them soon, he promises himself. As soon as T’Androma is off the ship and nothing can be done about the whole mess, he’ll call a meeting and let Spock give them the sensible, clinical version, and they’ll marvel at how _logical_ Jim’s been about it all, and then life will carry on, as usual, sans baby.

After he comes onto the bridge and explains the situation, he begins to wonder, despite Bones’ confidence, whether this is actually a good idea; he has to use his Captain Kirk Voice twice in the first five minutes to dispel the gaggle of cooing crewmembers back to their stations.

 _I must admit that I find myself greatly concerned by how little is required to distract the mostly highly recommended crew serving in Starfleet_ , Spock projects, glancing over his shoulder from the science station with a disapproving air. Several ensigns abruptly become very busy.

Jim hides a smile behind his hand, _She’s a baby, Spock; humans are biologically programmed to get distracted by them._

_Doctor McCoy would have been aware of this fact, therefore I am only able to conclude that it was his express intention to sabotage the efficiency of alpha shift._

Jim has to perform the age old Cough-To-Cover-Laugh technique, _I’m pretty sure that wasn’t his intention, though I wouldn’t put it past him._ He considers T’Androma, who is sitting in his lap watching the bridge, stylus still in her mouth and hands flapping in excitement, _You know,_ _I think I’ve got an idea on how to solve that issue_.

He clears his throat, “I’ve got some reports I need to sort out, so kiddo here’s gonna need some… alternate supervision,” he lets that one hang for a moment, watches as heads swivel towards him as the bridge crew start to realise what he means, “In ten minutes, I’ll start passing her around in five minute slots. Commander Spock will decide who gets to have her next depending on who he thinks is _working hardest_.”

The bridge goes silent.

The bridge stays silent, as half the crew on duty suddenly begin working with a mania unseen since the last Red Alert.

Jim shoots Spock - who had turned around at the mention of his name - a smirk and waggles his eyebrows for good measure. He may not be able to do the intimidating single eyebrow lift thing, but he has enough real estate on the good ol’ Kirk brows that he can pull off a decent eyebrow waggle.

Spock does one of his Vulcan not-sighs and turns back to his station. It’s a rather ineffective facade, however, as Jim can feel the amusement warming its way through their connection.

Apart from anything else, the bond is doing wonders for his ego because he knows now, without a doubt, that very occasionally Spock actually finds him _funny_.

With the journey back to the Itamish system going smoothly and the bridge, for lack of a better phrase, ship-shape, Jim has very little to do besides supervise and catch up on paperwork. He makes an honest attempt to read from his PADD, but his mind keeps drifting back to Spock’s suggestion in the medbay; to try opening his mental connection with T’Androma again and see if he can hold his own this time. He’s a little apprehensive, if he’s honest, though Spock’s confidence in him goes some way to assuaging his fears. Tentatively, he lifts his hand from the arm of the chair and rests it on his leg so it’s within grabbing range. She goes for it almost immediately.

It’s completely different than before.

Perhaps it's because she is not distressed and desperately seeking him this time, or maybe the mental walls are doing their job, but, instead of drowning in a tsunami, the experience is more akin to paddling in the shallows. She’s content for the most part; she likes the way the lights flash on Sulu’s console. She likes the texture of the uniform shirts though she likes the colour of command gold best. She can hear Uhura humming under her breath across the bridge and the sound is pleasing. She’s getting a little hungry, though not enough to upset her yet.

None of these impressions are transmitted via words. They are simply positive and negative associations with the stimuli around her, out-of-reach experiences building curiosity, feelings combining together to form her very first preferences. It’s genuinely fascinating to be a part of, and Jim suspects that there are child development psychologists the whole galaxy over that would kill to be in his place. She must feel him brushing against her mind because she tilts her head back to look up at him. Reflexively, he smiles, and is a little taken aback when he immediately feels warmth transmitted towards him through their mental connection. It’s not a feeling and it’s not structured enough to be a thought, but it’s positive and directed right at him.

As he looks down into the eyes the same blue as his own, he thinks that if she were to go back to New Vulcan tomorrow and their link dissolved and he were to never see or hear from her again for the rest of his life, he would be glad to have had this moment with her, to have known her mind for a few minutes.

Chekov is Spock’s first choice for Most Industrious Crewmember, which isn’t too much of a surprise, though Jim _is_ surprised by how eager the kid is to take T’Androma. He briefly wonders whether Pavel has younger siblings back on Earth that he misses - for about thirty seconds, at least, after which the navigator’s motivations suddenly become clear. He sits her carefully on his lap, looks at her very seriously and says, “Alright, say ‘ _Sdelano v Rossii_ ’.”

Jim hears Uhura laughing behind him, “Honestly, Pavel,” she says fondly, “Are you ever going to get tired of that stupid joke?”

Chekov rears up like he’s mightily offended, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eye, “ _Stupid joke_ ? No, it is about _pride_ , Nyota!”

“You know she’s way too young to start saying whole words,” Sulu points out. Jim notices that the helmsman has tilted himself towards the baby, hands resting lightly on his legs and arms tensed - ready to intervene if Chekov were to slip, Jim realises, and it occurs to him that Demora Sulu is probably only a year or two older than T’Androma.

“Is never too young to start vith languages,” Chekov protests, then plows on regardless with his insistent, though somewhat futile, Russian lessons.

The rest of the shift passes quickly with T’Androma being moved from lap to lap. She doesn’t seem to be fazed by it as each new crewmember provides new and ample entertainment for her - the highlight of the shift is definitely when Uhura treats them to a Swahili lullaby her mother used to sing for her and her sisters. Everything goes smoothly until Ensign Walking Bear is handing T’Androma over to Sulu, at which point she decides she has had enough and bursts into tears.

Jim is honestly relieved that it’s Sulu who gets the crying baby; far better an experienced dad than a panicked ensign. Or a panicked _captain_.

As predicted, Sulu takes it in his stride both literally and figuratively, walking slow laps around the helm with her against his chest, doing the jiggling thing - Jim watches eagle-eyed to try and determine the _professional_ comfort-jiggle velocity - but none of his practised techniques will calm her.

“It’s getting near to her feeding time, she’s probably just hungry,” Jim gestures to Sulu with both hands, “Pass her here, I’ve finished my paperwork so I’ll go drop her down to medbay.”

As he takes her, he presses his fingers to her wrist and tries project something calming. He knows she’s not really got the hang of words yet so he thinks about _feelings_ and they spill from him in a jumble - lying on the roof of Uncle Frank’s house when the stars are out, going to sleep knowing mom’s in the room next door, watching the sun rise with Bones after pulling an all-nighter, standing in the library of Spock’s mind and sensing a smile.

T’Androma stops crying so abruptly that Jim almost drops her in his surprise. Sulu stares at him.

“What did you do?” he demands, examining where Jim’s hand is on her wrist, “Is that some sort of super secret baby hold? Have you found an Off button?”

Jim stares down at her. She stares back up at him, and after a few seconds, grabs a handful of his uniform shirt and attempts to stuff it in her mouth. With some difficulty he extricates it and shifts her so that she’s against his shoulder instead, “I don’t know, I just…” he trails off, looking to Spock for help.

“As it was the Captain who discovered her when she was distressed on the Ambassadorial vessel, the most likely explanation is that she has developed an association with him of safety,” Spock supplies.

“The Keptin is her favourite because he saved her,” Chekov bounces a little in his seat, “That is _wery_ cute, sir.”

Uhura grins, “She’s imprinted on you like a duckling!”

Jim smiles round at them all like all of this is just a sweet coincidence and doesn’t actually mean anything to him, “That’s me,” he says, striking the best heroic pose he can manage with T’Androma in one arm, “Every Vulcan baby’s knight in shining armour.”

“Okay, now you’ve made it weird,” Sulu deadpans, turning back to his console.

Jim leaves the bridge to a smattering of laughter and the uncomfortable feeling in his gut that maybe he should have paid more attention when Spock warned him not to get emotionally involved.

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE:_ _2261.183. Kirk here._

 _We’ve made it from Andorian space to the Itamish system in two and a half solar days; slower than the journey out there, but Scotty didn’t appreciate the way we pushed the_ Enterprise’s _engines, so we took it a little easier now that there’s no emergency. The second cohort will be beaming down planetside first thing in the morning to start their shore leave._

_No real issues to report. I’ve filed a request with Starfleet for us to head to New Vulcan so we can drop the Ambassadors, their daughter, and the surviving members of their security team back home, and when that comes through we’ll be going there next. It’s a small detour from our trip out to Vancour B but nothing crazily out of the way._

_Then things can get back to normal again._

_Bridge efficiency has been phenomenal with the incentive of baby cuddles, almost to the point where we could probably write a report about it and send it to Starfleet requesting an official follow-up. Having a bunch of babies on the bridge is probably a bad plan though. Maybe puppies? They can be trained, at least._

_...Uh, anyway. Having T’Androma on the bridge has been really good for morale, too. I think the crew are gonna miss her. I know Bones definitely will; he’s been really enjoying having someone to rant at who doesn’t sass him back._

_Spock thinks introducing her to the crew was a mistake. He thinks they will ‘suffer emotionally from parting with her’. And he has a point, but if you think like that, what’s the point of getting to know anyone at all? Isn’t the whole point of life appreciating the people you’ve got while you’ve got them?_

_Now I sound like a damn therapist._

_...Aaaaand now I sound like Bones. Yikes._

_Kirk out._

*


	9. Chapter 9

Jim can't sleep. It's become a frustrating pattern in his life, to the point where he almost misses the weeks he spent waking up drenched in sweat from nightmares after Khan. At least on those nights he got in a couple hours beforehand - although, he supposes, at the time he probably would have _rather_ been an insomniac.

It’s more than just the usual head-spinning thoughts keeping him up this time, though. He’s pretty confident that it’s Spock’s fault, as pretty much everything in his life got weirdly complicated - or _more_ complicated, anyway - around the time their mental connection started up. He can feel that Spock is still awake, feel his focus like an itch in the back of his mind, even with both of them shielding. In Vulcan families it probably makes fantastic logical sense for every member to be on the same sleep cycle. Efficient. Keeps everyone on schedule.

But Jim’s human, and even back in his Academy days he couldn’t go this long without a night of half-decent shuteye. An exhausted captain is a safety hazard, even if most of the crew is going on shore leave, and that’s the only good reason he can think of as to why, at 0200 hours, he gives up, gets out of bed, pulls on a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, and knocks on Spock’s door.

Well, he _goes_ to knock, but the door slides open just as he raises his hand. Spock must have sensed him; he’s sitting at his desk, a stack of PADDs beside him and his console on. He swivels his chair around as Jim walks in.

_Jim? Is there something you require?_

Jim fidgets in the doorway. It had been an impulsive decision born from desperation and sleep deprivation, though now he realises he’s not entirely sure what he’s expecting Spock to do, or what he should do himself. The bed looks inviting as hell, but flopping down on it without permission feels like overstepping a boundary.

 _I can’t sleep,_ Jim admits, then offers Spock a sheepish grin, _I was gonna ask if you wanted to finally teach me to meditate, but I didn’t realise you were busy, I’ll-_

 _I have actually just concluded my research_ , Spock turns his console off and climbs to his feet before Jim can back out, _I would be gratified to aid in your attempts to seek rest and I believe that meditation would be highly beneficial to your mental and physical health._

Jim is a little caught off guard by Spock’s eagerness - well, what passes as eager for a Vulcan anyway - and he’s sure that it doesn’t pass him by that this is so similar to the last time Jim wandered into his room in the middle of the night asking for help sleeping. Similar, though also very different.

It certainly doesn’t pass Jim by. Spock’s not called him Captain once, and has not indicated that the reason he wishes to help is for the good of the ship. Sounds stupid, but it feels like a long way to have come in a few months.

Spock indicates that they sit on the bed, _As you previously indicated your displeasure towards the consequences of blood constriction on your lower body._

 _Pins and needles?_ Jim asks, amused, as he makes himself comfortable. Spock raises an eyebrow.

_Was that not the concept I conveyed?_

_Yeah, yeah, I just-_ Jim waves a hand, grinning, _Nevermind. I was just hoping you’d say it._

Spock exhales a little heavier than usual in what could almost be a sigh. Jim tries and fails to keep a straight face in the evidence of Spock’s exasperation.

 _Meditation_ , Spock thinks at him, and the tone feels on the firmer side of neutral. _Relax your body and calm your mind. Focus only on your breathing. If any thoughts should enter your head, allow them a brief consideration, and then choose to let them go._

 _Got it_ , Jim thinks, closing his eyes.

*

The next time he opens his eyes again, he’s lying down. It’s warm and comfortable and there’s a delightful lethargy diffused throughout his body that comes from waking up naturally, as opposed to from an alarm or nightmares. It’s a testament to Starfleet’s obsession with uniform, utilitarian quarters that it isn’t until Jim sits up that he realises he’s not in his own room.

He’s no stranger to the Waking Up In An Unfamiliar Space panic, though usually it’s abated by a warm naked body next to him - or, more often recently and somewhat less pleasantly, Bones looming over him in medical scrubs. There is no one in the bed besides him, naked or not, and Bones isn’t lurking with a hypospray, so he is, momentarily, confused.

And then he sees Spock at the desk.

He’s in Spock’s room.

He’s in Spock’s _bed_.

“Shit,” he groans, struggling out of the duvet, lethargy immediately forgotten in the face of his mortification, “Oh, shit, Spock, I fell asleep when we were meditating, didn’t I?”

 _You did._ Spock turns towards him, one eyebrow raised as he watches Jim fumble, _What is the source of your distress? Was falling asleep not your ultimate goal in seeking my instruction for meditation?_

 _Well yeah,_ Jim runs a hand through what is no doubt an impressive case of bedhead, brain scrambling to catch up as he stands to his feet, _But I was gonna head back to my room, I didn’t mean to- oh, god, I stole your bed - did you even sleep last night? Are you gonna be good to work on an all-nighter?_

There’s a flash of something like offense through the bond and a furrow develops between Spock’s eyebrows. _Vulcans only require on average 3.27 solar hours of REM cycle sleep a night. Any further respite required can be supplemented through meditation and healing trances._ His expression softens a little as he seems to realise Jim’s point of concern, _I have been adequately rested. I will be able to perform the tasks expected of me._

 _Right. Good,_ Jim deflates a little, _Well, uh, thanks for not putting me out on my ass when I started snoring, I guess?_

_Whilst in a meditative state I am able to block 98% of outside stimuli. It did not disturb me in any significant way._

Jim deflates further, _I’m_ so _glad, Spock_ , he thinks flatly. Then a new anxiety hits him, _Wait, what time is it?_

 _It is 0812 hours. You have sufficient time to dress, eat, and arrive at the medbay before your meeting with Doctor McCoy at 0845,_ Spock’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, _Jim, do you believe me to be so remiss in my duties as your first officer that I would not wake you with enough time to meet your commitments?_

Jim doesn’t know what to think. He’s still got that lingering groggy feeling you get from a deep sleep and his brain is really struggling to process where he stands in this half-professional half-personal conversation, not to mention the slow dawning realisation that when he’d turned up at Spock’s door last night, Spock had not only anticipated the eventuality of Jim falling asleep in his bed, but he’d assumed that it was Jim’s _intention_. And he was apparently totally cool with it.

Maybe he’s making this into a bigger deal than it needs to be. Spock certainly seems to think so. But Jim can’t help it - it took him literally _dying_ before Spock would even admit they were _friends_. Can Jim really be blamed for over-analysing seemingly casual displays of… well, whatever this is?

 _My apologies, Mister Spock,_ Jim offers what he hopes is a conciliatory smile. It’s difficult to tell which is the right one, sometimes; he just has to try ‘em and see what reaction he gets, _I underestimated your unwavering dedication, as usual._

Spock seems placated, if the disappearance of the furrow between his brows is any indication. Jim’s learnt that, despite the Vulcan’s insistence that compliments are illogical and unnecessary, often a little bit of subtle buttering up is enough to make him relax. A casual bit of praise for his efficiency or his steadfast and logical nature usually inflates his pride _just_ enough that he doesn’t notice Jim getting away with more than he should - or, at least, makes Spock more inclined to let it go. Entertainingly, it’s exactly the same method he uses on Bones. He tries not to think too loudly about that comparison.

Spock’s confusion abated, Jim heads back to his own quarters to get ready. Not for the first time he’s thankful that the First Officer and Captain’s quarters are joined by interior doors via a shared bathroom; he’s not in the mood for anyone to misinterpret his rumpled clothes for a different kind of Morning After situation.

By the time he makes it down to medbay he’s pulled himself together. Bones greets him with a preoccupied grunt, and then a double-take and a scrutinising look.

“Hi,” Jim says warily. He knows that look, and it usually means some kind of medical examination is on its way. He leans back as Bones leans forward, “You know I love it when you invade my personal space in a vaguely creepy way, but can you stop please?”

Bones squints at him and Jim squints back.

“You look...good…” Bones says, after a few more seconds.

“Uh. Thanks?”

“It’s not flattery, it’s a damn medical miracle. You normally look like shit first thing in the morning, ‘specially now your insomnia’s plaguin’ you again, but those black holes that were lurkin’ under your eyes have gone right down and your colour’s back up.”

Jim sighs as Bones thumbs down his lower eyelids and instructs him to look up. “Bones, as much as I’m enjoying this slew of backhanded compliments, can we please get on with whatever you called me down here for?” Bones frowns at him and Jim sighs again, “Look, I just had a really good night’s sleep, okay?”

Bones looks like he wants to push further, but Jim’s saved from further examination by the appearance of Doctor M’Benga, who requires the CMO’s attention for a few moments at a machine elsewhere in medbay.

Truth is, he _does_ feel better. The heaviness that usually sits behind his eyes and makes him feel wrung out is gone, and his shoulders feel less tight. Is it possible that meditating with Spock before falling asleep had given him deeper, more restful sleep?

There’s an idea there, something familiar, dancing just out of his reach, something about meditation and feeling better and Spock, but Bones derails his train of thought when he walks back over and shoves a PADD under Jim’s nose.

“I just need you to co-sign here to approve the temporary transfer of our patients to the medical facilities planetside, and then we can get movin’ before the next cohort beams down.”

“Right,” Jim says, letting go of the pursuit of the thought as he signs the document, “Anything else I can do for you, Doctor?”

“Well, have you decided what’s happenin’ with little missy?” Bones asks, gesturing at the makeshift baby cot Scotty had assembled for T’Androma in the corner of Bones’ office. Jim blinks.

“I don’t follow?”

Bones stares at him like the last blow he took to the head knocked out a few too many braincells, “Jim, I’m goin’ planetside. To the hospital. With my patients. I can’t take her _with_ me, I’ve got a job to do, I gotta concentrate.”

“Oh,” Jim runs a hand down his face, “Damn, I hadn’t thought of that. Right, what are our options?”

“Well, she could stay here in medbay with M’Benga - he said he’d be happy to keep an eye on her - but I figure it makes more sense for you or Spock to take her, since she knows you better, plus you’ve got that-” Bones taps his temple with a finger, “-bond thing.”

“Right, yeah, good thinking,” Jim’s eyes trail over to the cot. How hard could it be to look after a baby for a couple of days? People had been managing it just fine for thousands of years, and most of them didn’t have three years of Starfleet command track training and two counts of saving the galaxy under their belt. He tries to approach it with his usual Captain Kirk bravado, hoping that would make it seem less daunting, “I’ll take her.”

Bones eyes him with concern, “Alright, but don’t go all one-man-mission on this. You’ve got your own work to do, and there are two thirds of the crew still left on board; I’m sure there are a couple of reasonably responsible kids who’ll be happy to take her off your hands for an hour or so. And rope Spock in for the night shifts - he goes round braggin’ that Vulcans don’t need as much sleep as us lazy humans, so he can damn well prove it.”

“Gotcha,” Jim grins, and then a thought occurs to him, “Hey, if T’Androma wakes Spock up in the middle of the night, maybe I’ll get a chance to catch him with _bedhead_.”

Bones leans forward and grasps Jim firmly by the shoulders, “Jim, if you catch Spock with more than a single hair out of place, you have a _moral obligation_ to take a holo for me.”

“Aye aye Doctor Bones, sir,” Jim says, snapping off a lazy salute, with the strictly internal caveat of ‘unless it’s due to sex’.

Another thing he tries not to think about too loudly.

*

Jim takes T’Androma down to the transporter room with him to wave off Bones and the still unconscious Vulcan ambassadors. He considers calling Spock down too, in case T’Androma has a particularly emotional reaction to seeing her mothers leave, but then he realises that as he just signed up to look after her for four days, he should probably get used to dealing with that kind of thing.

As it is, her reaction isn’t too explosive; she recognises her mothers and seems more distressed by their lack of response to her than anything else. Without Spock’s psionic ability to tune in their connection and with his own mental walls in place, his awareness of her mind is fuzzy at best, so when the group vanishes from the transportation platform and she starts up a high-pitched wail, Jim’s first reaction is panic. He thinks back to last time, what happened on the bridge, and focuses on those same warm feelings, the memories that evoke calm and a sense of _belonging_.

It takes a few moments, but her cries culminate in a weak gurgle as her sobs taper off and she looks up at him. Blue eyes bright with tears, there’s something in her gaze that makes his throat tight, especially when, through their loose connection, he feels the same warmth reverberating back.

He smiles, then laughs when she returns a gappy gummy grin, “Hey, little girl,” he says with an experimental bounce, “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Easy peasy. He has _totally_ got this. He’s definitely _not_ going to be calling Bones in the middle of the night begging for help. He’s a grown man responsible for a starship crew of over 400, he can definitely handle one baby.

T’Androma stares up at him. If he squints, he can almost pretend her expression is skeptical.

He sticks around until the second cohort start beaming down, which turns out to be a fun but terrible idea as almost every crewmember wants to stop to say goodbye to T’Androma, so the beaming down process takes twice as long as it should. Spock turns up to observe the formalities, as usual, and even _without_ a mental bond Jim would be able to feel his palpable exasperation over the drastic inefficiency of ensigns wanting to take turns waving goodbye to a baby too young to even understand the significance of the hand movement.

As the most senior officers of the cohort, Scotty, Uhura and Sulu are in the last group to beam down. As Scotty passes, he moves something circular and plastic looking into T’Androma’s grab zone, and laughs as it’s snatched out of his hand.

“I heard the wee lassie’s a chewer,” he explains, watching with a pleased grin as the chew ring is immediately shoved into her mouth, “So I replicated up something to save Doctor McCoy’s poor stationery.”

Watching the last of the second cohort beam down - all of them waving cheerfully at T’Androma, who flaps excitedly back - fills him with that weird melancholy again, that _seeing your kid off to the school for the first time_ stuff. Which then inevitably gives him deja-vu, because his brain is annoying like that, so he pushes it down and covers it with smalltalk.

“Got anything interesting planned for this afternoon, Mister Spock?”

“Indeed,” Spock tucks his hands behind his back, “Doctor Marcus has a prospective experiment she wishes to outline and as Chief Science Officer it is my duty to oversee every project proposal submitted within the department before research can commence. She is building upon some of the hypotheses I presented in my thesis, and as such she has requested I take a more active role in the research than I would normally. I believe the results will be...fascinating.”

Spock seems to notice Jim’s confusion, but misinterprets it, “If however these plans cause conflict with-”

“No, no, Spock,” Jim shakes his head, “No, I’m just...I’m surprised that you’re happy to work so closely with Doctor Marcus. I was under the impression that...well, that you weren’t a big _fan_ of hers.”

“The concept of ‘being a fan’ implies emotional attachment,” Spock says, in a tone that is completely flat but somehow still conveys the idea that Jim is being _highly offensive_ for suggesting it, “However if what you are suggesting is that I have some form of negative bias against the Doctor, you are incorrect. She has admirable mental fortitude - for a human - and I have great respect for her initial forays into experimental molecular biology.”

“Wait, wait, _molecular biology?_ I thought her doctorate was in physics?”

“It is. However, she has expressed to me that after the...incident with the torpedoes, she no longer finds herself passionate about advanced weaponry or interested in supporting its continued creation. I believe that she still harbours some guilt over her role in what happened with her father, and as such she has transferred her passions towards research that may preserve life, instead of take it. She has become known within the department as having almost unsurpassed focus once she has discovered something which fascinates her.”

“ _Almost_ unsurpassed, huh?” Jim grins, “You mean because _you’re_ in the department too?”  

Spock inclines his head with what might just possibly be a smile, “As you say.”

Jim chuckles, nudging Spock with an elbow, “Alright, since you’re gonna be busy I’ll keep this one-” he prods T’Androma lightly in the side and she lets out a shrieking kind of giggle, “-entertained, maybe see if I can rope Chekov in, seeing as he hasn’t got Sulu around to make trouble with. I’ll meet you in the mess at dinner and we can figure out how her sleeping arrangements are gonna work.”

“Very well,” Spock says, nodding again.

Impulsively, Jim lifts T’Androma up so that she is face to face with Spock, as if to let her say goodbye. He’s not sure what he’s expecting her to do, but it certainly isn’t to lift her hands and pat him lightly on the cheeks with her palms. When Spock reaches up to move her hands away, Jim is already composing half-hearted quips to change the subject, anticipating seeing irritation or bemusement in the depths of his dark eyes.

There is none. He raises one eyebrow - three years ago Jim wouldn’t have believed that a simple lift of an eyebrow could have so many nuances, but Spock’s presence in his life has made him rethink many, many things, not least whether or not he considered it possible to be attracted to someone with a bowl cut - and when Jim searches out tentative feelers towards their bond, all he finds radiating from Spock’s mind is gentle warmth and a wry kind of amusement. There’s a pause, as the two part-Vulcans seem to study each other, and Jim is tempted to push harder, elbow his way into whatever is being passed between them. Somehow, though, it feels like that would be invasive, and the prospect of being rejected for turning up uninvited to their private exchange is too horrific to contemplate, so he swallows down the impulse and waits until Spock lets go of her hands.

“Jim. I will see you at dinner,” Spock says coolly, looking back at Jim as if nothing has just happened.

“Yeah,” Jim says, eloquently as usual, “Uh, yeah. Sure. Bye.”

T’Androma, apparently rather attached to the concept of waving after all her earlier practise, flaps a hand at Spock as he turns to leave. With a twitch of his mouth and a slightly louder than usual exhale, he holds up his hand in the _ta’al_. After a second, he moves it back and forth in the air the tiniest amount, as if even that is a great concession.

There’s a weird feeling in Jim’s gut as he watches Spock walk away. He’d spent a lot of time freaking out over his own messed up feelings around interacting with their daughter, and somehow amidst all that it had never occurred to him to consider that Spock might have the same misgivings - or that he just might be a _natural_.

It’s more attractive than Jim would like to admit.

*

He finds Chekov in the observation room on deck six, his usual haunt during off-duty hours. With the absence of Scotty and Sulu, the kid seems quieter and more subdued than his normal energetic self, tucked up in a corner with a paper book in one hand and a PADD in the other, alternating between reading and typing.  

Jim approaches slowly, so as not to startle him. Chekov looks up when Jim is a few feet away and breaks into a smile. “Keptin!” He sets his book and PADD aside, then leans forward so he’s at T’Androma’s eyeline, “ _Rad tebya videt'_ , T’Androma.”

She makes an incoherent babbling noise in response. Chekov blows a raspberry back at her in mock frustration and she laughs delightedly, making what might be an attempt to copy him, though it amounts to little more than opening her mouth to show him her tongue.

“Ensign Chekov,” Jim says, raising his eyebrows in a pretence of disapproval, “Are you teaching the Vulcan Ambassadors’ daughter bad habits? By the time she goes back to New Vulcan with her moms she’ll be as illogical as any of us humans.”

Chekov grins, “Then she’ll keep them all on their toes.”

Jim laughs and sits down beside him, shifting T’Androma to his lap, “What are you working on?”

“Oh, this?” Chekov shows him the cover of the book. It’s in Russian, which is no big surprise, “I am translating this for Nyota. She knows Russian basics, but she wants more...colloquial knowledge? I offered her to borrow my favourite novel, one in original Russian and one in English, so she can compare - but the English translation of this is so terrible, I could not give it to her in good conscience without some, ah, _editing_.”

“Is it difficult?”

“ _Da_ , but I enjoy it because I know she vill enjoy reading it.” Chekov says, shrugging.

Jim stares at him for a few moments, “You know, Pavel, I think you just might be the nicest person on this ship.”

Chekov is pleased but flustered, ducking his head, “I enjoy it, really.”

“Well, if you’d like a break, I was gonna go to the deck four replicator and see if I can coax it into making a baby sized Starfleet shirt for T’Androma to take back as a souvenir.”

Chekov looks dubious, “I don’t know, Keptin, that replicator is unreliable - Hikaru and I tried to print festive onesie for Demora last year and it came out vith three legs and made of wrong material.”

“Maybe,” Jim smirks, “But did you and Sulu have the Captain’s replicator lock override code?”

Chekov’s eyes widen, “You mean- you mean ve can take it _apart_?”

“Well, if it’s already broken, I don’t see why we _shouldn’t_.”

They end up sitting on the floor as they disassemble the faulty replicator, taking turns being elbow-deep in wiring and keeping T’Androma busy so that she doesn’t try to eat anything inappropriate. Jim isn’t sure which is more difficult.

About twenty minutes in, when Jim’s got Pavel’s PADD hooked up to a partially reassembled portion of the machine so he can try running some codes he found on the extranet, he pauses to watch Chekov lift T’Androma above his head to guess at what her measurements might be for their first print attempt.

“You seem very comfortable holding her,” Jim says, trying to keep the envy out of his voice, “Did you grow up around younger kids?”

“I did,” Chekov lowers her and gives a clearly nostalgic smile, “I have four younger siblings.”

“Four! No wonder you’re good with babies…”

“Three sisters and a brother. And two older sisters, too, and also I now have a little nephew.”

Jim puts down the PADD. Chekov is completely focused on bouncing T’Androma on his knees in a way he wasn’t before this conversation started.

“It must have been hard to leave them,” Jim says gently. Chekov nods.

“ _Da_ , it was. I miss them a lot, nearly all the time,” the young navigator sighs, then abruptly perks up, “Though, maybe, not all of them for long - one of my little sisters, Natalia, has won junior scholarship for Starfleet Academy!”

“That’s pretty impressive. So she’ll be joining us out here in the black someday?”

Chekov grins, “Not for a little vhile - she is only twelve, and cadets cannot serve on a starship vithout a guardian present until sixteen.”

“ _Twelve_ ,” Jim rubs his temples, “And at the academy. You’re kidding. A preteen...she’s practically still a _baby_.”

“Maybe, but do not say that to _her_!”

Jim snorts as Chekov laughs, then lets out a long-suffering sigh when he notices the particular expression on Pavel’s face, “Alright, go on, say it.”

Chekov blinks, the picture of innocence, “I do not know vhat you are talking about, Keptin.”

“You’re going to make some crack about _genius being invented in Russia_.”

Chekov’s beam is practically blinding in its intensity, “You said it sir, not me!”

The afternoon passes quickly with Chekov’s company and the challenge of the replicator. It’s not quite that kind of menial labour that lets Jim switch off his brain, but sitting quietly and working through a problem methodically is a kind of luxury that he doesn’t usually have. For Jim the most likely challenges day-to-day are either life-threatening or paperwork related, one of which has entirely too much stimulation and the other not nearly enough.

He and Chekov head to dinner later with their hard-won prize - a correctly printed Starfleet uniform shirt for T’Androma, in command gold, _naturally_ \- and find Spock in the mess surrounded by a somewhat tactically arranged group of young officers, all evidently hoping that their proximity to the commander will allow them access to the baby.

“This is _veird_ ,” Chekov hisses when all eyes turn towards them as they walk into the canteen, “Vhy is everyone obsessed with her?”

Jim sighs, making a beeline towards Spock, not entirely able to hold down a smile when the excited murmuring gets louder with each ensign he passes, “It’s not such a big ship, Chekov. New things are exciting, especially when they’re small and cute.”

“Not big? There are over four hundred people!” Chekov says incredulously.

“Yeah,” Jim says, shooting the navigator a grin, “And none of them are cute babies.”

If Spock is aggravated by the behaviour of the crewmembers, he doesn’t show it outwardly, just continues to calmly eat his salad and read from his PADD. However, when Jim searches out his mind through their connection, he can feel low-grade irritation radiating from Spock like heat from a glowing coal.

 _Should we pass her around, do you think?_ Jim projects. Spock’s eyes flick up from his food towards them.

_Negative. It would simply encourage others to act in a similar manner in the future._

_Good thinking._

“Good evening, Mister Spock,” he says aloud, with pointed cheerfulness, “You seem particularly... _accompanied_ tonight.”

Several heads quickly turn back to their dinners. Spock lifts his head from where it was bent over his PADD and surveys the mess hall as if he’s only just noticed the small crowd surrounding them, and his gaze sweeping the tables ensures the rest of the rubberneckers desist. The volume of the room suddenly increases as half its occupants scramble for casual conversation. Jim snorts and shakes his head as he sits down.

They get through dinner quickly; Spock, having already finished his food, takes charge of feeding T’Androma. For her part, she doesn’t seem to notice that she’s the room’s centre of attention.

 _Maybe we should rope some of them into moving her stuff_ , Jim thinks.

_Unnecessary. I have already transferred T’Androma’s belongings to my quarters._

Well. That’s that. Not for the first time, Jim is a little blindsided by the incredible efficiency of his first officer.

He wonders if he’ll ever get used to it.


	10. Chapter 10

Chekov slips off when he notices the young Orion ensign he’s been - in Bones’ words - _courtin’_ the last few weeks and spent most of his shore leave with, so Jim and Spock head back to their quarters alone, with T’Androma drowsing against Spock’s shoulder.

“How are you holding up, Spock?” Jim asks, mostly to break the unsettling quiet of the _Enterprise’s_ nearly empty halls, “Can't be easy having to constantly fend off two illogical mostly human minds.”

Spock considers the question for a few seconds, “It is not the burden you believe it to be; T’Androma has yet to act in a manner unbefitting of her Vulcan heritage.”

“You mean she's not done anything illogical yet? What about that waving stuff earlier?”

“Negative. That is not an illogical impulse, it is a learnt social behaviour. At her stage of development copying the actions of those around her is a highly effective way of gathering knowledge.”

“I guess.” Jim shrugs, then he realises what Spock implied, “Hey, wait, are you suggesting that I'm less logical than a _baby?_ ”

“...Is that something you believe I would suggest?”

“Yes!”

Spock’s mouth twitches, and Jim is sure that if he were to push at their connection he’d find amusement lurking there, “Then it is as you say.”

“Augh! Now you're just being mean,” Jim folds his arms and huffs, half turning away from Spock as they pause to wait for the turbolift.  

“Jim,” Spock says, in a voice that suggests he’s being totally reasonable and Jim is not, “I am not sure why you are so offended by this statement of fact. Even with only a quarter of her genes being Vulcan, T’Androma still has a natural advantage over you.”

“She's like four months old! She can barely support her own _head_ \- I command a whole starship!”

“These are all facts.”

“Well…” Jim tries to find a better argument, fails, then casts around for a half-decent rebuttal as the turbolift doors open in front of them, “...You're totally gonna eat those words when she's a teenager.”

As they step inside, his brain tries to conjure up an image of the person T’Androma might be in her teens - dark hair and blue eyes are as far as he can get. Would she be tall and lean like Spock? Shorter and stockier like him? Would she join Starfleet and travel the stars, or stay on New Vulcan in some other profession?

After she goes back home with her mothers and the biological bond fizzles out, would she still seek out a relationship with either of them? Perhaps, if her mothers allowed it, he and Spock could be like uncles to her. Maybe she could visit the _Enterprise_ for a summer. He could send her vintage paper books and her own chess set, vidcall her on her birthday.

He'd be a stable figure, distant maybe, but always warm and ready to help her back up to her feet. Like Pike was for him; not exactly a father, but someone to bridge the gap. The kind of person who sees all your shit and still won’t give up on you. The kind of person who will track you down on the wrong side of town and tell you everything is going to be okay when it feels like the world is falling apart.

And where would _he_ be by that point? Still chasing around the galaxy with Spock, or chained to a desk, drowning in the bureaucracy of the admiralty, all his crew still off gallivanting out in the black? The very idea makes him shudder.

_Jim? You appear to be disassociating._

He blinks, and sees that the turbolift doors have opened. He’d done a lot of disassociating in the weeks after he woke up in hospital; Bones had started referring to them as his ‘drifty moments’ when Jim had all but begged him to stop being so clinical. Two years on and he’s mostly got a handle on his mental health, but much to his aggravation there are some things he just can't shake.

 _I’m fine, Spock, I was just...thinking,_ Jim starts as the turbolift doors begin to beep impatiently, and quickly heads out into the corridor.

 _About the future,_ Spock prompts gently, following him.

Jim cringes, wondering just how much Spock had caught of his weirdly emotional thought spiral, _Yeah, I guess. We’re nearly halfway through our five year mission and I was just wondering where we’ll all go from here - where we’ll be ten, twenty years from now._

Spock is silent, seemingly pondering the subject for himself. Before he can answer, T’Androma starts wriggling and making a high-pitched whine that Jim has learnt indicates there’s a serious cry on the way. He paces backwards a few steps so he’s behind Spock, so he can see her face, and bends a little so they’re eye to eye.

“Hey baby girl,” he says softly, “What’s up? What’s going on?”

She lifts her head from Spock’s shoulder at the sound of his voice. Her face creases as she seems to be considering whether to scream or not, and this time Jim doesn’t panic; he reaches out towards her mind, ready to calm her-

And finds Spock, already there. The unexpected meeting startles them both, like they’d just walked into each other physically.

_You have been comforting T’Androma through the bond?_

_Yeah, she seems to like it when I send her happy thoughts and nice memories,_ Jim feels Spock’s momentary surprise flicker towards him, _Uh, should I not be doing it?_

Spock shakes his head, _There is no reason why you should not, I am merely...that is to say, it is unusual for a psi-null being to be able to communicate so clearly with another who has so little control over their telepathy._

They go back to walking side by side, approaching the end of the corridor where their quarters are located. _Well,_ Jim scoffs, _It’s hardly clear. It’s like having a conversation with someone on the other side of a wall, even if we’re touching, those mental shields make everything muffled._

 _Fascinating,_ They pause outside Jim’s door, _If you would be amenable…_

 _Yeah?_ Jim tries not to project too much excitement and probably totally fails.

Spock straightens up and somehow, even with a baby drooling on his shoulder, still manages to look every inch the composed Vulcan first officer. It’s a pretty endearing picture. _I could provide instruction so that you would be able to control the intensity of your mental shields and thus ‘unmuffle’ your mental transmissions._

 _Mister Spock, I would be delighted,_ Jim presses his hand to the biometric scanner that opens his quarters, _Probably best in my room though - I don’t wanna pass out in your bed and inadvertently relegate you to the couch again._

_That would be wise._

They settle on Jim’s bed, the routine of sitting cross-legged, side by side, pleasant in its familiarity. T’Androma is propped up in Spock’s lap, her back against his stomach, and he must have done some mental calming because she’s gone from grouchy back to sleepy. Jim gives her a little wave and she smiles drowsily back.

_If you are ready?_

Jim gets comfortable, then nods.

“My mind to your mind,” Spock murmurs, fingers a light touch on his face.

Initially, when he opens his eyes, Jim is confused. He’s expecting Spock’s mind library, or the expanse of space that Spock had interpreted his thoughts into. Instead, they’re still in his cabin.

Or...not quite his cabin. When he concentrates, he can see that the far walls aren’t quite... _there_ , the room just seems to taper off into shadow. There are several definitely non-Starfleet-regulation bookcases around the bed, and behind him there’s a huge observation window that fills the space with the low purplish glow of distant stars.

_Where are we? Is this…is this T’Androma’s mind?_

_Negative_ , _it would be unwise to for her to ‘host’, as it were, whilst her psyche is still in such a crucial stage of development. She would be overwhelmed by stimuli and it might cause long-term neural damage._

Jim settles back onto his hands, enjoying the atmosphere created by the low hum of engines and light shifting slowly, the pleasant combination found on the _Enterprise_ when they’re travelling just on thrusters. _So where exactly are we then?_

T’Androma is gazing dreamily at the ceiling, enthralled by the patterns of moving light, so Spock moves her to lie on her back on the bed between them before he answers, _You could call it a neutral space; the edge of where our three minds meet. I have filled it with visual stimuli you are familiar with in order to aid the way you process mental data in the meld. It is a technique Vulcan parents use when children are young to help reinforce family bonds and aid in early attempts at meditation, a recreation of a real physical place that the child knows well, where they can safely explore the extent of their psionic connections without the risk of accidentally becoming overwhelmed. It is called the_ shi' hizhuk, _the place of quiet._

 _The_ shi’ hizhuk, _I like it,_ Jim repeats, imagining how the word might feel to say outloud, _Did your parents do this with you?_

Spock nods, _Yes, my father did, and my mother contributed as much as she was able as a human. These spaces are used by parents up until the child turns eleven, at which point they are discarded in preparation for the_ kahs-wan _. The parental bond is purposefully weakened, almost severed, the night before the child is taken to the desert, in order to prevent any transfer of thoughts which might influence the results of the trial. Once the_ kahs-wan _is complete, the child will no longer be reliant on the parental bond, and for most Vulcans it becomes what you might consider dormant._

 _Woah, woah, wait - what’s_ kahs-wan _?_

_Seek, and you will find it._

Jim shifts around to pull one of the books off the nearest shelf; the cover is made of sandpaper, it is heavy in his lap, and something about it makes him hesitant to look. He flips it open and suddenly heat surrounds him, almost smothering him, choking in its intensity, he can barely _breathe_ for the heat in his lungs. His belly is empty and his tongue is dry, his legs ache from walking all night, and there’s - _I-Chaya, he shouldn’t have come, he wasn’t supposed to follow, the le-matya, NO! -_ he’s so full of fear and grief but that’s not the Vulcan way, he has to swallow it down, has to control it, has to prove he’s more than just a half-breed, has to _survive_ -

Jim snaps the book shut with a gasp and throws it across the bed away from him. It’s Tarsus, Tarsus, fucking _Tarsus_ all over again, and he hates how often that trauma’s rearing its stupid ugly head but Spock’s memory is so vivid he can’t help reliving it. His heart’s racing and he realises dimly that he’s panting, that he can’t get enough air, and his head’s spinning.  

That familiar line appears between Spock’s eyebrows and he reaches out, _Jim, do not be distress-_

 _You leave your kids out in the desert, with no food,_ alone _? That is- that is a hundred different kinds of messed up, Spock! What the hell! What the everloving_ fuck!

 _Jim_. Spock gestures to T’Androma who is staring, wide-eyed, out of the observation window. Jim turns and sees a swirling inferno of a supernova, the light almost bright enough to hurt; it’s anger and abandonment issues rearing their head in a reactionary mess, his own trauma screaming, wailing, raging at the prospect of a parent choosing willingly to cut themselves off from their child and purposefully leave them in danger.

And it's scaring T’Androma.

He sucks in a deep breath then lets it out slow, doing the breathing exercises Bones taught him for panic attacks, until he feels the supernova inside of him shrink down into something manageable. He opens his eyes and realises Spock is holding his hand.

 _Whatever I end up being to her,_ Jim thinks, deliberately meeting Spock's gaze despite his urge to look away, _I don't- I don't want her to be afraid of me._

 _Jim,_ Spock squeezes his hand, _I do not believe that is something you need be concerned about. Her overarching association with you is one of safety; when she was scared and overwhelmed by secondary pain on the Ambassadors’ ship, it was you who found her, it was your mind that brought her comfort. She will not forget that._

T’Androma is watching him now, head tilted to the side against the bed so she can see his face. With the supernova no longer so blindingly bright she is calmer, fear shifted into curiosity. Jim wonders if she is aware enough to know that they're talking about her. He sidles his free hand along the bed towards her and is relieved when she grabs for it without hesitation.

 _The prospect of T’Androma undergoing the_ kahs-wan _is distressing to you._

 _Damn right it is,_ Jim tries to keep the anger distant - it is a moral outrage, not a personal wrong, it is not a fury that can consume him in this place of quiet, _The idea of any kid being dumped in a desert and left to fend for themselves is distressing, let alone-_

Our kid. My daughter.

Jim swallows, _Let_ _alone T’Androma._

Spock looks down at their joined hands for several moments. _My mother expressed...misgivings about the_ kahs-wan _also. She campaigned against it extensively. It was a topic that she and my father disagreed very strongly on; he maintained that it was tradition, whilst she argued that it was barbaric._

_And you still did it...because you wanted to prove you were Vulcan enough?_

_Yes,_ Spock exhales heavily, _My mother did not approve, but she empathised with my reasoning._

There’s a deep thread of sorrow there, an almost physical presence, like a mist in the air. Jim figures Spock might appreciate changing the subject.

 _You said you could show me how to manipulate my mental shields?_ He says quietly.

Spock nods, and there's an almost imperceptible change in his face and posture; it is something like his First Officer Spock demeanour, and Jim thinks maybe he remembers it from that fateful day at the academy when they first met. But this is Spock the teacher, who is more personal than the businesslike officer but less judgemental than the perturbed instructor he faced during his trial.

_As a psi-null individual you will never be able to control your mental shields to their fullest extent, however there are some basic exercises you can learn._

Spock climbs off the bed, releasing Jim’s hand to stand a few feet into the room. Jim can't quite smother a flash of disappointment when their fingers part but if Spock notices he doesn't react.

 _Visualise a door here._ Spock gestures to the space beside him, _It can be fictional, or exist in reality, but it must be one you have absolute faith in. It is imperative that you know the door cannot be breached, as its strength against other minds is only what you believe it to be._

Jim squints in concentration, and after a few seconds the door to his quarters appears. He's pretty pleased with how accurate a representation it is, and is even more pleased by Spock's nod of approval.

_When you wish to access T’Androma’s mind without the shields ‘muffling' what you receive, visualise yourself opening this door to look through. You can perceive all things clearly, but you must stay on your side of the door, and lock it when you are finished._

_Right,_ Jim nods, _Should I try now?_

 _That would be an ineffectual exercise as my presence here is already ensuring a full connection to her thoughts,_ Spock points out _, You should attempt it outside of the_ shi’ hizhuk.

 _Oh. That makes sense, I guess,_ Jim shifts around then carefully lies back, so that his head is at the same end as T’Androma and he can also watch the shifting lights on the ceiling. He gets why she likes them; they’re soothing, a more complex and beautiful version of the glo-stars he used to have on his bedroom ceiling as a kid. He feels the bed dip as Spock takes a seat again. _So...if the space is from my mind, and the books are yours, what does her mind look like?_

_It is difficult to say whilst she is still in this early developmental stage; to use a highly inaccurate but linguistically effective metaphor, the fingerprint of her mind has yet to fully form its unique shape. And whilst every being's mind grows and is constantly altered throughout the process of their life, a child as young as T’Androma still acts almost entirely on biological instinct as opposed to personality._

_So you're saying because she's so young your visual impression of her mind is kind of...blurry?_

_Essentially, yes. And yet…_

Jim pushes himself up on his elbows, watching Spock's furrowed brow as he stares into the middle distance.

_What I can sense of her mind - what is truly her, not just biological instinct - it reminds me of your mind, Jim._

_Me?_ Jim says, eyebrows raising.

_Yes. To use another highly inaccurate metaphor, if a mind could have a taste, you two would share a similar flavour._

_Mind flavour,_ Jim is unable to hold back a smile, _Okay, that's pretty cool._

The three of them stay in silence for what could be hours in this strange dreamlike space, just watching the way the light of the stars plays around the room.

 _You should sleep, Jim. Your physical and mental forms are fatigued._ Spock's voice is low and gentle. When Jim turns towards him, his face is unexpectedly close. Their noses are almost touching.

 _Yeah,_ Jim whispers, barely daring to breathe, _Maybe you can do whatever you did to me whilst we were meditating yesterday so I get an awesome night again._

Spock jerks back abruptly with a sickening stab of guilt which is immediately smothered.

 _Wait, I was just joking. You_ did _do something, didn’t you? I'm not mad Spock, you can tell me._ Jim reaches over T’Androma to take Spock's hand so he can't pull away any further. He feels a hot flush of embarrassment flicker across their connection.

 _You have not had sufficient REM sleep to support the lifestyle of a starship captain for some time, and as such it has been a drain on both your physical and mental health. During our meditation session I used our open psionic channel to ensure efficiency in your body’s processes so that you could recuperate a greater amount in a shorter space of time,_ Spock presses his mouth into a tight line, _My apologies, it was highly inappropriate to do so without express consent._

 _You don't need to apologise,_ Jim thinks firmly, squeezing his hand.

Spock seems to disagree, ploughing on with his explanation, _As your first officer it is my duty to protect the well-being of my captain-_

Jim lets go of Spock's hand. Of course Spock meant it professionally. He swallows his disappointment as he looks away, _Alright, Spock, I get it, it's just your job._

He starts as Spock grabs his hand back, _And as your friend, I was...concerned._

 _Thanks,_ Jim thinks with a smile, _You're a pretty good friend._

 _Sleep, Jim,_ Spock says firmly.

And then, quieter, _I find myself pleased that you think so._

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE:_ _2261.185._

_It's the last day of the second cohort’s shore leave; they’ll beam back up to the ship tonight and tomorrow morning Spock and I will beam down with the third and final cohort. We’ve agreed that it is both most practical - and in T’Androma’s best interests - for us to continue our guardianship of her over the course of our shore leave._

_Doctor M’Benga, who in Bones’ absence has taken up the position of Resident Mom, is concerned that having to watch a baby might interfere with our shore leave plans and therefore somehow negatively affect our mental and physical ability to rest. But this is Itamish III, not, like,_ Risa _\- it’s an agricultural colony with advanced science research facilities so about 90% of it is farmland with the odd lake. It would be pretty difficult to make plans that aren’t baby-friendly._

_If I’m honest, I don’t actually mind too much. Looking after T’Androma has been, dare I say it, relatively simple. I mean, the hardest part of babies is not knowing why they’re crying, right? And we got that covered with our mind-connection-thing._

_No sweat._

_Aaaaaand if she suddenly turns into an impossible devil child tomorrow, then I’ll have this log as legitimate evidence that I totally jinxed shore leave. Here’s hoping that luck and superstition really are the illogical human fallacies Spock claims them to be…_

_Kirk out._

*

Jim utilises his medbay-stealth skills later that day when a sparring session with Cupcake - the only security officer who is ever comfortable enough to fight with him, and Jim sometimes wonders if, given their history, he should be concerned by that - leaves him with a nasty friction burn up his shin from one of the mats. As Spock has T’Androma all afternoon, his plan is to nip in, borrow a dermal regenerator, and get back out again before Doctor M’Benga can give him that Longsuffering Side-Eye that Jim swears they must teach at Med School.  

The plan is going pretty well, as he’s managed to grab a regenerator and duck into Bones’ office without any of the medical staff noticing. He’s got his trouser leg rolled up, foot propped up on Bones’ desk, and is about halfway through fixing his shin when the door opens rather suddenly and Carol walks in.

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Jim manages, “Ah. Good afternoon Doctor Marcus.”

“Captain?” Carol replies somewhat vaguely, clearly completely thrown by the situation. Her eyes dart between his leg and his face, trying to find some sort of explanation.

Jim clears his throat, “I think this is the part where I tell you it’s not what it looks like...although if it looks like I’m trying to use a dermal regenerator on my leg then, actually, yeah, it _is_ what it looks like.”

“Okay,” Carols says, in a voice that suggests she’s not entirely convinced. It occurs to Jim that the weirdness of the situation might be reduced somewhat if he wasn’t practically doing the splits over a desk. With a little more of a struggle than he’d like, he manages to get his leg down, “I’m going to just grab my mug, then I’ll let you get back to,” she gestures at the desk, “Um, whatever this is.”

“Your mug?” It takes a few seconds of searching, but he finally spots the mug behind a particularly large stack of PADDs. It says _Bombshell Blonde_ on one side, white print on science-track-blue background, and a stylised image of a blonde pin-up girl riding a missile adorns the other side.

It’s...not quite what he’s expecting, and that must show on his face because she snatches it off the desk and holds it to her chest somewhat defensively.

“It was a silly present from Christine, when I finished my doctorate,” she looks down, taps her nails against it, then smiles fondly, “She got it commissioned specially.”

The subject of Christine Chapel is one that hasn’t been broached since that very awkward conversation on the shuttle, and as he has no desire to go through that again Jim decides now is probably the best time to bail.

“Right,” he says brightly, heading for the office door, “I should go and put this back before M’Benga notices that it’s gone and rats me out to Bones.”

“Captain,” Carol calls, catching him by the shoulder. There’s something hesitant in her voice and it's evident she's conflicted over whether or not she wants to speak to him, so he tries to keep a friendly but neutral expression, “Can I ask you something about Doctor McCoy? Off-record, I mean; I want to talk to you as his friend, not his commanding officer.”

 _Ah_. Jim grins. He’s gotten _this_ question before “No, Bones and I never dated - he's a good man, but he's like a brother to me. You don't need to worry about any weirdness on that front.”

Carol’s blank reaction indicates that was _not_ what she was intending to ask, “Well, um,” she says after a few seconds, “I guess that's good to know? That wasn't what I meant, though…”

“Ah, right. Well, always helpful to clear the air on that sort of thing, I find,” Jim tries very hard to not let his internal cringing show through on his face and isn't sure how well he succeeds, “What was it you wanted to ask? I'll answer pretty much anything I feel won't be liable to make Bones retaliate and start dishing embarrassing dirt on _me_.”

Carol laughs, relaxing a little, which is good. _A humorous anecdote to lighten the gravity of the situation,_ his memory supplies in a perfect mimicry of Spock’s tone.

Carol perches on the edge of the desk and begins to fiddle with her uniform sleeve, thumb brushing the smooth silver band indicating her rank, fidgeting as she searches for the right words. Jim leans back against the doorframe and tries to be as unintimidating as possible; he might not Loom like Spock, but he knows that with rank comes an unconscious air of authority that his crew will never be able to separate him from. The power-responsibility stuff isn't just for superheroes, and that's a lesson he’s learnt the hard way.

“Leonard really likes kids, doesn't he?” She blurts eventually.

Jim blinks. He'd been mentally preparing himself for an uncomfortable conversation about sex, so he's not sure where this is going, “Uh, yeah, I guess he does. He's a natural with them.”

“He pretended to be grumpy about having to look after that Vulcan baby we picked up, but I saw him with her and he just - _melted_ , you know?” She grins, “And he talks about Jo all the time, it's obvious he really misses spending time with her.”

“Not being able to raise her is killing him more than he'll ever admit,” Jim says quietly, “More than he'll admit sober, at least.”

“And it seems like…” she trails off, dropping eye contact and studying her boots instead, “Well, like he's the sort of person who would definitely want kids to feature in his future?”

Jim hopes fervently that this isn't an unexpected pregnancy announcement. Keeping a straight face to hide his reactions is making his jaw ache. How the hell does Spock manage it?

“That's the sort of question that I can't answer for him,” he says, gently but firmly.

Carol nods thoughtfully, tucking her hair behind her ears, then she sucks in a deep breath, and Jim has a split second to prepare himself before it all comes spilling out.

“I don't think I want kids,” she admits, the words clearly costing her a lot emotionally to say by the way she bites her lip afterwards and can't meet his eyes, “Not because I don't like them, I think they're great, but I love my work so much _more_ , and I know firsthand what it's like to grow up with a parent who cares more about their next pay raise than their child, and I can't- if there's even the slightest risk I might put my career before my own child then I can't-”

Jim looks away as she rubs at her eyes and tries to compose herself. There's a bitterness in her voice that he hasn't heard since the first few weeks after he woke up at the hospital, when she was still recovering from her broken leg and being relentlessly hounded by reporters wanting the nasty scoop on her father. They'd tried to get his room too, until Spock had threatened them in his between-the-lines Vulcan pacifist way, and then Bones had threatened them, not between the lines but loudly and vocally, and after that the presence of the mouthy doctor and the looming half-Vulcan was enough to make even the most intrepid reporters back off.

Carol had taken refuge in his room quite a few times, especially after Starfleet had given the official statement regarding Admiral Marcus, and they'd talked a lot. She was smart and funny and, even with permanently puffy red-ringed eyes, she was cute. In their mutual vulnerability they’d become close quite quickly and Jim had half wondered if something might happen between them - but then she’d been discharged and put under house arrest pending Starfleet investigation, and he’d been busy relearning how to walk and dealing with the consequences of his own decisions. By the time they were reunited they were back on the _Enterprise_ , at which point rank ensured that romance was definitely not on the cards. Which was probably for the best since Jim had other feelings regarding another very specific science officer to contend with.

He tries to remember the seminars he’d attended at the academy about supporting your crew whilst maintaining professional distance. He'd found them agonisingly boring at the time though now he's making a mental note to sign up for a refresher course next time he's on Earth. Usually, his gut instinct would be to send her to Bones, who actually has a qualification in psychology, but in this case…

“Sorry,” Carol says, laughing self-consciously, “I didn't mean to- you don't need to console me or anything. I just- I don’t know, I guess I wanted to know if Len would even consider being with me if I told him that.”

Jim reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. He’s always been a tactile person and he thinks Carol would appreciate it right now. “I can’t answer for Bones. I know he loves kids but I think it’s all a lot more complicated than that.”

“God you’re right.” Carol says shaking her head. “I just really like him Jim, and I know we've not been together long, but I want this to _work_.”

“Well, he’s a pretty great guy,” Jim says with a grin. Carol laughs half-heartedly and he counts that as a win, “I might not be an expert, but if it counts for anything, I think you’d be a great mom. And, uh,” he rubs the back of his head, “I’m not sure how much you know about what happened with Joanna, but I don’t think Bones’d mind me telling you that she wasn’t exactly...planned. So he’s the last person who’d have _any_ problem with the idea of waiting to decide on this sort of thing until you’re completely sure what you want.”

Carol nods, then sucks in another deep breath. She seems calmer again, “Sorry I got all intense on you there. I honestly wasn’t planning to go into a strange spiel about my dad, it just sort of, um, _happened_.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he squeezes her arm, “I’ve got my fair share of weird parent issues going on. You’re not alone here.”

“You’re not telling me _you’re_ worried about being a dad?” Carol raises her eyebrows, “You’re kidding. You’re the captain of a starship! You’re responsible for over four hundred people! How could a baby be more intimidating than _that?_ ”

Jim laughs, “Well, for one thing, all my crewmembers are already toilet-trained. Running a starship is one thing; raising a kid is very definitely _another_.”

“I don’t know, it seems like you’re doing pretty well with the little Vulcan we picked up. Pavel says you’re her favourite.”

“ _Pavel_ says that whiskey was invented by a little old woman in Stalingrad, but that doesn’t make it _true_ ,” they both laugh, but then Carol gives him a look like she knows he’s deflecting. Jim bites his lip, glancing away before something more deep than he wants to show slips out, “She’s lucky she’ll be heading back to New Vulcan with her moms soon, before my terrible influence illogic-ifies her.”

Carol’s eyebrows lower and the corners of her mouth turn down, like she’s about to say something out of concern for him, like she’s totally sussed him out on this one, but Jim is saved by the office door opening to the face of one rather irritated Doctor M’Benga.

“Captain,” he says, folding his arms, “You wouldn’t happen to know where my spare dermal regenerator is, would you?”

Jim makes a show of producing it from his pocket, “Oh, you mean this thing that I found totally coincidentally on a definitely completely unrelated errand I was running here in this office?”

M’Benga takes it with a sigh, “Is there something I need to log with the CMO, Captain?”

“Just a skinned knee,” Jim rolls his trouser leg up to prove it, “Nothing to trouble Bones over.”

“You are the most accident-prone commanding officer I have ever treated.”

“Just trying to keep you on your toes, Doctor,” Jim says, winking. M’Benga laughs and shakes his head, then turns to Carol.

“What about you, Doctor Marcus? You got anything you need treating?”

“Just my memory, maybe,” Carol gestures to her mug. “Forgot this again - I feel like I’m leaving it everywhere lately!”

M’Benga’s smile turns a little sly, “Not sure about everywhere, though it does seem to wind up here in Leonard’s office an awful lot.”

Carol flushes, then rolls her eyes, “Alright, ha _ha_ , I’m totally transparent, I know. Get back to your patients, _Doctor_.”

“Aye aye, _Doctor_ ,” M’Benga gives her a mock salute, then turns back to Jim, “And you - you may be the captain, but next time you ask permission before stealing expensive medical equipment, alright?”

“Affirmative,” Jim copies M’Benga’s joking salute, raising another laugh as the Doctor leaves the room.

“I should get back to the labs,” Carol says, “I left Commander Spock there with the baby and even Vulcans can only multi-task for so long.”

“Of course. I hope whatever you two are cooking up in there goes well.”

“Thanks, Captain,” she pauses at the door, then turns and smiles at him, “And if it’s any consolation, I think you’d make a great dad, even with your ‘weird parent issues’.”

Jim doesn’t know how to respond to that so he smiles at her as she walks off. He hopes it comes off as his usual mix of self deprecating and unabashed and not as messed up as he feels. He leaves the medbay unsure whether he should be feeling cheered up or even more confused than before. He consoles himself that his advice probably hasn’t screwed up Carol and Bones, at least.

Small mercies and all.


	11. Chapter 11

Jim’s never been great at keeping secrets - not because he’s a bad liar, but because the guilt always eats away at him like acid until he feels like his insides will dissolve in bubbling agony if he doesn’t tell anyone. He knows himself well enough to be aware that the process has already begun on this particular secret, starting months ago that first time they left New Vulcan, and now that the actual evidence is on the ship he’s burning to let it all out.

It’s Uhura who undoes him in the end. He’d kept it in check the last couple of days, giving out only the most general of details when asked about T’Androma, telling himself he’ll explain it all to them when he can. But then when they’re making cheerful smalltalk in the transporter room after she, Scotty and Sulu beam back up, she asks whether he has any plans for his own shore leave, and he makes the mistake of casually mentioning that he and Spock would be taking theirs together in order to continue looking after T’Androma.

Scotty doesn’t even notice, having already marched off ahead to exchange ship logistic reports with Spock, and Sulu reacts only with a polite smile, as he’s carrying two rather large new plants and is obviously dying to get back to the botanical lab to study them.

Uhura, though; she shoots him a shrewd look, gaze moving from him to the baby in his arms to Spock and then back, and Jim knows in that moment that if he doesn’t give her some kind of explanation soon she will start to get suspicious - not in a mildly curious kind of way, but in a bad way, and he can’t face the prospect of losing her hard-earned trust.

He catches up with Spock and passes him T’Androma, making some excuse about needing to work on his backlog of paperwork in front of Scotty, but thinking very distinctly about talking to Uhura.

_You wish to explain to her the circumstances of T’Androma’s heritage?_

_Keeping secrets from your crew is a bad idea, but keeping secrets from friends is worse. She knows something’s up, Spock, and it’s not fair to lie to her._

Spock considers this as Scotty shows them both some new gadget that he picked up at the science facilities on the planet. Keeping track of what he’s meant to be saying aloud and not confusing that with the mental conversation he’s having with Spock takes all his concentration, so he feigns more bewilderment than he would usually to keep Scotty occupied with explanations.

_I agree with your suggestion; you should speak with her. Nyota is a highly practical and trustworthy individual who will likely have a unique and valuable viewpoint on the situation._

Jim is expecting to feel relief at gaining Spock’s assent, but it blossoms straight into nervous butterflies when he realises that now he’s actually going to have to _do_ something about it.

He lurks in the crew residential corridor, making smalltalk confidently with anyone who passes like it isn’t totally weird that he’s there - he’s learnt over the past few years that he can get away with a lot as long as he acts like what he’s doing is completely normal and expected - and catches Uhura as she’s leaving her room.

“Uhura! Hey!” he bounces on the balls of his feet, a habit he’s picked up from Bones, “Have you got, like, an hour? I _really_ need to talk to you…”

Uhura narrows her eyes, “Is this about Spock?”

Jim is probably more surprised than he should be, “Uh, kind of?”

Uhura sighs, folding her arms and clenching her jaw, “Look, Jim,” she begins awkwardly, “I’m...I’m not your personal Vulcan Specialist, okay? There are some things with Spock that you’re just going to have to figure out for yourself.”

“That’s- that’s not what this is,” Jim runs a hand through his hair, “I just - I want to explain something to you because I trust you and you deserve to know, and because I don’t want you to be shocked when the truth comes out,” he grimaces, “Also I’m sort of freaking out?”

Uhura’s eyes grow, in Bones vernacular, as wide as Sunday dinner plates, “Oh my god. Are you sleeping with Spock?” Her voice rises to a volume Jim is rather concerned by, “Are you and Spock _dating?_ ”

“Look, can we have this conversation somewhere we’re less likely to start rumours?” Jim hisses, looking frantically up and down the corridor; thankfully there’s no one within earshot or he’d have a lot of new scuttlebutt to answer to. Uhura ushers him into her quarters, locks the door, then leans against it like she’s barricading him in.

“We’re not together!” Jim jumps in before she can pester him again, “There is nothing explicitly romantic or sexual going on between us at this point in time, and that is _not_ what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She sits on her bed and watches him pace up and down, “So are you gonna wear a hole in my carpet or are you gonna tell me?”

“Do you remember when-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head, “No, you need more context. Uh, okay,” he stops pacing and turns to face her, then takes a deep breath, “Do you remember when we did that emergency stop at New Vulcan about six months ago?”

“You thought Spock was in pain, then you two and Doctor McCoy did this super secret trip to the planet and suddenly he was better and it was never mentioned again?”

“Yeah, that was - that was about it, yeah.” 

Uhura leans in intently, “Was it Pon Farr?”

“What?” Jim blinks, “What’s Pon Farr?”

She clears her throat, suddenly looking awkward, “Uh, nevermind. Forget I said anything. Carry on.”

Jim squints at her, “Um...alright. So, super secret trip to the planet,” he takes another deep breath and decides the easiest way is probably the most direct. Rip it off like a verbal bandaid, “When Vulcan was destroyed Spock donated a bunch of, uh, _biological samples_ to the population rebuilding program, and they made a test tube baby out of his DNA, but something got messed up and she was missing something important to do with Hepcidin that she could only get from human genes and she was _dying_ , so I donated some genes and, yeah, now we have a baby.”

There’s a silence as Uhura tries to process his rambling.

“You donated some genes,” she steeples her fingers, “How many genes? Just the Hepcidin one?”

“Oh, about twenty-three chromosomes,” he says, voice cracking a little.

She stares at him, mouth slightly open, elbows resting on her knees, “Twenty-thr-? So you and Spock have a-?” She gasps as she realises, “It’s T’Androma, isn’t it? She’s your daughter? That’s why we rescued her!”

“Well that’s not _why_ we rescued her - but it’s how we knew something was wrong.”

“Oh, you mean you’ve got a- a _skan kashek tel tor?_ ” At his blank expression she looks into the middle distance, mouthing out the words as she tries to translate the concept for him, “Uh, _skan_ is family so…it would be...joining of minds... a family mind bond?”

Jim raises his eyebrows, “You know an awful lot about Vulcans.”

“I did a _lot_ of research before I asked Spock out. And he doesn’t lie, but the wording of his answers needs premeditation; if you ask him a question directly and totally out of the blue he’ll usually answer it truthfully on impulse,” she freezes a second, and then slaps her thighs with her palms, “Oh, I knew it! I _knew_ the ambassadorial ship couldn’t have sent a distress call straight to Spock’s comm without leaving some kind of papertrail - I spent so long scouring the transmission codes thinking I must have missed something, but I _didn’t_!”

“You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

“Sorry, I just- that’s been bugging me for _days_ ,” she exhales and runs her hands down her face, “Wow. This is… a lot.”

“You can say that again,” Jim mutters. He sits down next to her on the bed and she nudges him companionably with an elbow.

“How are you feeling about it all? I don’t imagine ‘having a baby’ was on your list of things to do before you’re thirty…”

Jim snorts, “No, it _really_ wasn’t. And...and it doesn’t matter how I feel. She’s going to New Vulcan with her moms soon as we’re done with shore leave, and then we can all get back to normal.”

“Alright,” Uhura says lightly, in a tone that suggests she’s pretending to believe him, “She’s pretty cute though.”

“Yeah,” Jim exhales a laugh, grinning fondly, “Obviously that’s all thanks to _my_ genes, a Vulcan would never dare be something so illogical as _cute_.”

Uhura examines her nails nonchalantly, “And what was it Chekov said on the bridge? That you’re her favourite?”

“Where is this going?” Jim asks, narrowing his eyes. She takes his hands and raises one eyebrow at him - seriously, is he the only one on the whole damn _ship_ that can’t do it? That’s over four hundred people, there must be _someone_ else, statistically speaking, that’s stuck in the both-or-none camp with him.

“Jim. Look at me and tell me that T’Androma leaving isn’t going to mess you up, and I swear I’ll believe you and never mention it again.”

He knows what he wants to say; he wants to tell her that he’s got this, that he’s only known this baby a few days and he’ll be able to let go of her no sweat, that he can handle putting himself through the wringer if it’s for the good of the people he cares about. That he _died_ once, so how bad could anything else be?

Yeah, that’s it, he should go for the bravado angle. The few attempts at dark humour he’d made concerning the Khan Incident had gone down like a lead balloon tied to an _anvil_ , so he usually avoids joking about it, but maybe it’s the right thing for this situation. Maybe it’ll distract Uhura enough that... 

Jim looks down at their joined hands and swallows. No, it’s not fair to purposefully hurt her.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” he repeats, as if saying it again will make it easier, “She’s got two highly competent moms who will keep her safe and that’s- that’s _enough_.”

Uhura pinches her lips together, “I’m not asking you whether it’s the right thing to do. I’m asking whether you’re gonna be _okay_.”

“I-” he wants to lie. He would _really_ like to lie, “I don’t know,” he admits hoarsely, “It’s only been a couple days but the mind-bond thing...it makes everything so much more intense.”

Uhura releases his hands and pulls her feet up onto the bed, resting her arms on her knees, “What’s it like? Spock and I melded a few times but we never had a full mental bond,” she cocks her head to one side, eyes bright and curious, “Isn’t it kind of invasive having someone in your head all the time?”

“It’s pretty weird, I’m not gonna lie, but Spock’s taught me a bit about how to shield, so he only hears me thinking when I purposefully push things at him, and he’s not constantly overwhelmed by my human craziness.”

There’s a microexpression that flashes past on Uhura’s face; Jim doesn’t quite catch it, but it’s enough to make him realise too late that the bond she was referring to was the family one with T’Androma, and she didn’t know about the one with Spock. Something he _maybe_ should have been more sensitive about...

“You have a mind-bondwith Spock?” she asks, voice suddenly quiet.

“Yeah,” Jim swallows the lump in his throat and the strange urge to apologise, “He melded with me to save me when I got hit by that poison dart plant, and it sort of...stuck around.”

Uhura bites her lip. “Look,” Jim says, “It really-”

She holds up her hand. He stops.

“You don’t need to apologise, Jim,” she says, resting her chin on her arms, “I just… when Spock and I were dating, I asked him about the Vulcan mind connections,” she snorts, “I thought they sounded exciting. Romantic. But because of the power difference in our relationship - when we first met we were student and tutor, and on the _Enterprise_ there’s our rank - he felt it was more important that we maintain our independence, for my sake. And I was fine with that, I’m an independent person! I just- I thought _he_ chose it because _he’s_ an independent person too, but...”

 _But then he chose to be co-dependent with me_ , Jim’s mind finishes. His stomach churns.

“Don’t pull those puppy eyes on me, Kirk,” she grumbles, shoving his shoulder lightly, “I didn’t tell you this to guilt-trip you, alright? Just to give you context.”

“Are _you_ gonna be okay?”

“What?” She blinks at him, “Oh, yeah, it’s been nearly a year since we broke up, I genuinely am okay. But you know…you know when you have a big breakup and you think you’re done, and then out of the blue something tiny hits you that you didn’t realise you hadn’t processed yet?”

Jim’s only had two breakups in his life that could be described as ‘big’ - Janice Lester and Gary. He was the one who broke it off with Janice, and at the time he couldn’t have been more relieved to finish their relationship, but Gary… Gary messed with his head. Gary made him stupid. It had taken _years_ to get him completely out of his system.

“Yeah, I know that feeling,” he says solemnly.

They sit in silence for a few moments, both lost in their own contemplations. It’s actually pretty nice.

“Oh my god,” Uhura says, out of the blue, and when Jim looks at her she’s laughing, “I can’t believe you’re a _dad!_ Well-” she narrows her eyes minutely and he knows without words that she’s thinking of the half-naked mouthbreather that she’d chased out from under Gaila’s bed, “-I mean, I can _believe_ it, but… _wow_ , Jim. This is crazy. How have you managed to keep it to yourself this whole time?”

“By remembering that she’s leaving for New Vulcan in a few days and that it’s actually quite possible that I’ll never see her again?”

Uhura’s face drops. She takes his hand again and squeezes it, “You really think that her going back with her moms is the right thing to do?”

“There aren’t any other options. Seliea and T’Mir adopted her, we can’t just be like, ‘oh by the way, we’re her biological relatives and we’d like to keep her now, thanks!’”

“That wasn’t what I was suggesting,” she says soothingly, and isn’t until he hears her calming tone of voice that he realises he’s even getting worked up, “There are conversations you can have-”

“Even if we had ‘conversations’, and worked out - I don’t know - shared custody or something - what kind of life would it be for a kid, growing up on a starship?”

“A perfectly _fine_ one - there are plenty of Starfleet spacer kids nowadays.”

“And all of this is irrelevant because at the end of the day, I’m not exactly _dad_ material, am I?”

“Really?” Uhura says flatly, “ _That’s_ what you’re going for, the daddy issues angle?”

Jim clenches his jaw, “I would have thought that you of all people would agree.”

“Me of all people?”

“Don’t you remember that ‘dumb hick who only has sex with farm animals’?”

“Yes, which is why _I of all people_ can compare and contrast him with the man I see before me today.”

Jim sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Are you trying to talk me into this or what?”

“I’m not trying to talk you into anything, I just want to make sure you know what you want, because I don’t think you _do_ know what you want.” She shakes her head, mouth pinched in frustration, “This is why I didn’t want to get involved - first you were acting all mopey about T’Androma leaving but the moment I suggest that maybe she doesn’t have to disappear out of your life forever, you start with the excuses.”

Jim flops back onto the bed with a groan and covers his face with his hands to avoid having to answer because dammit if she isn’t right. Uhura lies down next to him on her side, arms folded, watching his profile with an expression that slowly shifts from exasperated to sad.

“Use this shore leave to figure out what you want, Jim,” she says more gently, “Or at least make the most of it while she’s here.”

Jim sighs loudly, deliberately ramping up the melodrama to push the mood lighter. Uhura rolls her eyes and kicks him lightly in the shin, “Now get your mopey drama queen ass out of here.”

“My exquisitely sculpted mopey drama queen ass?”

“I will give you sculpted,” she concedes, kicking said ass as he climbs off the bed, “But exquisite is too far.”

“That's fair,” he says, as the door to her quarters shuts in his face.

*

When they beam down to the facility the next morning they find themselves materialising in an expansive open lobby with large windows on three of four walls, showcasing the planet's impressive vistas. The combination of pristine white walls and furniture, glass sculptures, and the idyllic rolling green hills in the distance, is captivating enough that it takes Jim several seconds to notice the woman walking towards them. She’s dressed in the same white as the rest of the room, with white gloves and white heels, so that if he squints all he can see is a small round head bobbing up and down above long brown legs.

He glances at Spock beside him and pushes the mental image across their bond. Spock’s expression takes on a slightly exasperated look, though he does admit, _It is a very effective form of camouflage_ , which is very nearly a joke by Spock standards.

“Captain Kirk,” the woman clacks to a halt in front of them, and up close Jim can see that she has a buzzcut, a very attractive shade of lipstick, and a labcoat-style tunic that is fitted rather tighter than he’s used to seeing on the owners of thermonuclear analysis equipment. He wonders vaguely whether she'd dressed to impress; it wouldn't be the first time that he'd received a _warm welcome_ on an official Starfleet visit, “My name is Doctor Evelyn Cài, it is an honour to have you here with us.”

So _this_ is Doctor Cài, Jim thinks. No wonder Bones was a little concerned about the prospect of Carol getting a _personal tour_ \- although, knowing Carol, the science facilities would be a bigger threat for her affections than any person could be.

“It's an honour to be here,” Jim puts on his best Captain Smile and shakes her hand, “Thank you for agreeing to have us.”

“And this must be Commander Spock, and-” her eyebrows lift when she notices T’Androma peeking out from under her blanket in Spock’s arms, “Oh, a little one? Is she-?” Doctor Cài looks questioningly between Jim and Spock.

“She's a guest of ours, while her mothers are recovering in the medical facilities you’ve so kindly loaned us,” Jim cuts in quickly, flashing another charming smile. Cài smiles back, and from the look in her eyes he's pretty sure that yes, she _is_ dressing to impress.

He's taken up a fair few of the offers he's gotten from ambassadors and delegates over the years, mostly to relieve the loneliness of captaincy - knowing that going any further than vague flirting with a non-command-level crewmember could be legal grounds for a sexual coercion charge takes the excitement out of it somewhat, not to mention the very uncomfortable power dynamic any possible relationship would have. As a result, he’s gotten a very particular _reputation_ ; something he might have deserved back at the Academy, though he feels is kind of harsh nowadays, especially since his feelings for Spock have pretty much ground his interest in anyone else to a halt.

Were this any other shore leave, he _may_ have considered pursuing that smile somewhere more intimate, even just for flirting and harmless fun, but somehow when he has Spock and T’Androma as shore leave companions it seems oddly inappropriate, and just considering the idea makes him feel guilty. He hopes for his own sake that Doctor Cài doesn’t make any further advances.

“My colleagues have already shown the rest of your cohort to their rooms,” she gestures that they follow her down a corridor which, surprise surprise, is all white. It’s impressive but kind of clinical, “I can show you to yours, or our staff can take your luggage up and you can accompany me to a lecture that will start in-” she glances at a readout implanted in the wrist of her right glove, “-five minutes? We have one of the leading researchers in artificial biosynthesis speaking this week, it should be a fascinating discussion.”

Jim can tell that Spock’s interest is piqued purely by his posture, “You have academic conferences hosted here?”

“Yes,” Doctor Cài glances over her shoulder and seems to take in Spock properly for the first time, “We’ve been incredibly fortunate that our planet council has financially invested in this facility and built a hospitality compound so that we may host guest researchers and speakers.”

Spock glances at Jim, “I would be interested to attend this lecture, if that is acceptable, Captain?”

“Not a problem, Mister Spock,” they pause in the corridor so that T’Androma can be passed between them, “Artificial biosynthesis is a little over my head anyway, so I’ll dump our stuff in our rooms and take this one to see her moms and the Mother Hen.”

“You mean Doctor McCoy,” Spock says, the barest flicker of humour passing through their connection.

Jim winks, “Who else?”

“Very well, Captain Kirk, here is your door key,” Doctor Cài pulls a card from a discreet pocket on her tunic and passes it to him, “I’m afraid that due to your somewhat last-minute return and how well-booked the conference is, we’ve had to allocate you both a twin suite rather than the single rooms initially organised - I hope that’s not an issue?”

Jim glances at Spock, who shakes his head, “Not at all, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Thank you for your understanding. If you take the lift there behind you to the third floor, your room will be on the right, at the very end of the corridor.”

Jim takes Spock's bag, makes his goodbyes, and heads off. He figures that touring guest lecturers must have _way_ higher standards than humble starship captains, because the room his key opens is _huge_ and he has no idea why Doctor Cài would feel the need to apologise for it. It has two double beds - he’s briefly disappointed that the vague fantasies forming in his mind around the prospect of having to share a bed with Spock will not be realised - a huge vidscreen, a basic but expensive-looking food replicator, and a luxurious bathroom with a corner bath that runs actual real water. The large window running the length of the bedroom has a view out over carefully cultivated botanical gardens set into a square courtyard of, surprise surprise, white stone, that has a very geometric water feature and some chess tables set up around it.

He makes a mental note to ensure that they just _happen_ to be in the Itamish System next time they need shore leave.

“Not bad for your first hotel, huh kiddo?” he mutters, shifting T’Androma so she can better look around. The room has the same monochrome decorating scheme as the rest of the facility, lacking the bright colours that she’d enjoyed so much on the _Enterprise_ , but she’s still enthralled by the new environment.

He feels weird about the prospect of unpacking Spock’s bag - that’s _spouse_ level domesticity, when there’s no real privacy left - so he leaves it on the bed nearest the door, and drops his own and the small rucksack with T’Androma’s supplies on the floor by the second bed. He sets her down in the middle of the mattress so he can go through his stuff with both hands, making sure to glance over at her regularly just in case she does some crazy baby parkour and maneuvers herself too close to an edge. There’s a fold-up cot in a cupboard he finds whilst poking around, presumably left there by someone more informed about their guests than Doctor Cài was; setting it up takes rather more brainpower than he’d like to admit and rather more swearing than Spock or Bones would approve of. He consoles himself, when it’s done, that T’Androma’s totally not old enough to start repeating words yet.

Well, he’s like, ninety percent sure that she’s not old enough.

“Alright!” he says brightly, leaning over her with a grin and enjoying the way she immediately reaches for him, babbling excitedly, “Bag unpacked, crib set up - I think it’s time to go pester Uncle Bones.”

The holographic map set on the dresser underneath the vidscreen shows the medical wing as being on the opposite side of the facility, the fastest way to reach it being via the courtyard. He syncs the hologram with his personal PADD for when he inevitably gets lost, scoops up T’Androma, and heads off.

By the time he makes it out to the courtyard, he’s decided to make it his personal shore leave mission to find one _damn_ room in this whole facility that’s not white, or he’ll find some paint and fix it himself. The sterility makes for a very fancy aesthetic but it’s seriously starting to grate on his nerves. The fresh air and the sudden bright green act as a balm to his irrational irritation, though, and he takes a few moments just to enjoy breathing something other than starship-recycled oxygen.

He looks down and sees T’Androma wide-eyed and open-mouthed, head moving back and forth like she’s watching lo-grav tennis. It occurs to Jim that, having lived on the desert landscape of New Vulcan or in an ambassadorial shuttle her whole short life, this is probably the first time she’s seen so much vegetation in one place. He takes the long way around the courtyard to give her time to process it all; he’s tempted to pick her a flower to hold but then imagines how unimpressed Bones would be if she ate it and then he came running in with a baby foaming at the mouth.

With some help from the receptionist he finds the correct ward, and knocks on the automatic door purely because he knows it winds Bones up.

“Knock knock, Uncle Bones, someone’s here to see you,” he calls in a sing-song voice.

Bones’ head emerges from an office, and there’s a beautiful moment where his expression turns from mild irritation when he sees Jim to poorly-concealed delight when he notices T’Androma. Jim tries not to take it too personally.

“How’re you doin’, little missy?” he cooes, practically snatching the baby from Jim’s hands, “Looks like you’re all in one piece; that’s a miracle if I ever did see one. Jim n’ Spock treatin’ you right?”

“Hi Bones. Everything’s fine Bones. Nice to see you too Bones.” Jim deadpans, and gets an eye-roll in response.

“You can hardly blame me for bein’ concerned.”

“I can and I will,” Jim says loftily, and Bones scoffs, “Don’t act like that, everything was absolutely _fine_ , no issues at all, everyone involved is still alive and healthy and happy.”

“Well thank heavens for small miracles.”

“You already said that.”

“Well it’s a pretty big shock, Jim-boy.”

Jim huffs, following Bones as he takes T’Androma over towards the biobeds, “You have no faith in me!”

“I have faith that you can run a starship, less so about changin’ diapers.”

“Honestly?” Jim grins, “Spock did most of that. Disgust is apparently illogical.”

Bones’s eyes widen, “You serious? James T Kirk, you lucky sunnuva-” he glances down at T’Androma, “-gun. Well, he could have mentioned that when _I_ was on baby duty!”

They reach the beds where Seliea and T’Mir are resting, still in their Vulcan healing trances.

“They’ve been out a long time,” Jim says, voice low with concern, an instinctive but irrelevant precaution as T’Androma wouldn't understand the words anyway. Bones sits down on the side of T’Mir’s bed and sets T’Androma down next to her mother; immediately the usually cheerful and babbling child goes quiet and solemn, chewing on her fist and watching T’Mir’s face. She’s not distressed or sad, just calm, and Jim wonders whether their proximity has allowed the ambassadors to reach out to their child psionically.

“Their injuries are pretty severe,” Bones picks up a PADD from end of the biobed and glances over it, “I don’t know what Vulcan Voodoo they’re doin’ in there but without immediate medical attention most humans wouldn’t’ve made it this far, let alone after bleedin’ out for an hour or so. Some of the fancy tech this facility’s let me borrow has helped a bit, though I’m concerned about Seliea - her injury was less severe so by all accounts she ought've woken up by now, but her recovery's almost plateaued.”

Jim looks between the two women; they're both lying on their backs but their heads are tilted towards each other. It's...pretty cute, honestly, for a Vulcan couple.

“Spock told me that back on the ambassadorial ship that instead of healing herself, Seliea transferred her energy to T’Mir to stop her bleeding out,” Jim shrugs, “Maybe she's doing that again here?”

Bones’ mouth twists in a scowl, “I wanna be mad, but that's an annoyingly understandable idea. If you're listenin’ Seliea, you can quit it now, I got ya both stabilised!”

There's no apparent change, but Jim laughs anyway. There's a tight feeling in his chest he wants to dispel and he thinks it might be jealousy, at the devotion these Vulcans are unashamed to show one another.

Although apparently Spock chased Khan through San Francisco and nearly beat him to death with his bare fists to avenge Jim, so maybe he shouldn't complain _too_ much.

“What d’ya make of these fancy facilities?” Bones asks conversationally as he wanders over to his console and starts back on his notes, “I heard there was a spa somewhere but I’ve not found hide or hair of it yet.”

“I haven't seen much of them apart from my room and the courtyard,” Jim turns back to T’Androma who seems to have left whatever calm trance she was in and returned to her normal wriggly state, “She really likes the gardens out there - she’s probably never seen so much green. I think we have a budding botanist on our hands.”

Bones snorts, “Easy there, Jim, that was almost a Dad Joke.”

“Yeah, well,” the words _I_ am _her dad_ are stuck in the back of his throat, “The dad joke dost not maketh the dad, and all that.”

Bones squints at him, but doesn’t respond to that non-sequitur.

Jim and T’Androma leave shortly after when Bones is roped into giving an impromptu lecture to a bunch of eager nurses - he pretends like it's aggravating but nothing gets Leonard McCoy excited more than the opportunity to rant about how dangerous space is to a captive audience. T’Androma makes a small sound of distress that nearly breaks Jim’s heart when she's moved away from her mothers, so he promises her they'll come back later in the day.

They head back to the room via the courtyard, allowing plenty of time for her to enjoy the bright colours of the plants, and where they meet Yeoman Rand and Ensign Riley, who are considerably more excited by the baby than their captain, which again he tries not to take personally.


	12. Chapter 12

Jim's back in his room a few minutes when there's a knock at the door. Expecting it to be Spock, he yells, “It's open!”

“Captain Kirk?” it's not Spock, it's the polite accented voice of Doctor Cài. She's peering round the door, clearly amused by the sight of Jim leaning bent double over the side of the crib. He doesn't miss her checking out his ass.

“Ah, Doctor,” he straightens up and clears his throat, “Is there something I can do for you?”

She smiles. It's a very pretty smile that lights up her dark eyes, but something about the situation makes him strangely nervous, and he hasn’t felt nervous about flirting with an attractive woman for years. Perhaps it’s because he’s not actually interested in this one, which becomes a more ridiculous correlation the more he thinks about it.

“There is, actually,” Doctor Cài steps into the room, then leans invitingly against the doorframe, “I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me tonight.”

 _Shit_ , Jim thinks. Something must show on his face, because Cài’s smile takes on a distinctly amused look, “Ah. I take it that’s a _no?_ Don’t worry, Captain, I won’t kick you off the planet if you turn me down.”

“I, just-” Jim glances down at his hands, and decides honesty is probably the best policy. It’s usually enough to catch people off-guard, at least, “Can I ask you a question, Doctor?”

“Please, call me Evelyn. And of course.”

“Evelyn,” he folds his arms and raises his eyebrows at her, “Is this going to be a...platonic dinner?”

Her smile grows, “I was rather hoping it would be a little _more_ than platonic.”

“Ah. In which case, thank you for the offer, but I’m afraid I have to say no.”

She seems surprised - clearly she doesn’t get rejected very often - but not upset, which is a relief, because he’s had people turn on him violently for less, irrespective of gender or species.

“May I ask why?”

He doesn’t want to say _because I’m madly in love with my first officer and I don’t want to miss out on a whole evening I could be spending with him and our daughter before she disappears and he mostly likely completely cuts me off - again_ , so he says, “I’m afraid that I’m, uh, emotionally unavailable.”

“I wasn’t intending any emotion be involved,” she says, that deeply amused expression returning.

“All the same,” he gives her a smile that he hopes looks less awkward than he feels, “Thank you, but… well, it wouldn’t feel right.”

She watches him for a few moments, scrutinising him like a lab sample under a microscope, and then in one fluid movement her body language completely transforms from seductive back to friendly professional; her gloved hands tuck into her pockets, her diagonal lean against the doorframe situated to best display her body straightens up, and her small smirk softens into a genuine smile.

“Understood, Captain. I appreciate your honesty - no hard feelings,” she tilts her head to one side, “Your reputation doesn’t do you justice, you know.”

He’s about to respond with something that would undoubtedly hit the perfect balance of hilarious and semi-seriously aggrieved, when she glances out into the hallway and starts, “Oh, Commander Spock! Good afternoon.”

 _Spock_. Shit. Knowing Jim’s luck he would jump to _conclusions_ and make everything weird.

“Captain Kirk,” she gives him a little wave, rapidly exiting the room behind Spock with a somewhat awkward grimace that indicates she perhaps has understood more of the situation than Jim expected or intended, “Enjoy your shore leave!”

Spock glances to the side to watch her leave, then turns back to Jim, “Did Doctor Cài require something?”

“She asked me to dinner,” Jim squirms, suddenly feeling that sample-under-a-microscope feeling again. Maybe it’s a scientist thing, “I declined.”

Spock looks back at the door, then back at Jim, that line between his eyebrows appearing. He’s confused. Jim squirms again.

“You have accepted the propositions of civilians during shore leave in the past-”

“Yeah, but-”

“-And she is both physically attractive and intellectually advanced, traits which you usually require in your prospective sexual partners.”

“Which is irrelevant because I said _no_ ,” Jim grits his teeth, “Look, are we done with the inquisition?”

Spock blinks owlishly at him, “It was not my intention to interrogate you, I merely wished to ascertain your intentions.”

“Yeah, well. You’ve ascertained. Just drop it.”

Spock treats him almost...delicately for the rest of the day, which is really weird because Jim’s never known him to walk on eggshells. He offers to stay in the room with T’Androma during her afternoon nap to allow Jim to explore the facilities further, so he spends a very relaxing if contemplative few hours wandering around the gardens and enjoying the spa - the location of which he relays to Bones. He returns to the room to find that Spock has made them reservations at the only restaurant in the nearest small town - logical, obviously, as they hadn’t yet signed up for canteen passes, but also strangely courteous. He’d even organised for Bones to take T’Androma so that they would be able to eat at their usual adult time rather than having to work around her sleep schedule.

Jim’s used to Spock automatically handling things to make his life easier - that’s practically his job description as first officer - but he’s never spent so much time with him on shore leave, and he wasn’t expecting that _taking care of things_ attitude to continue outside of professional circumstances.

Honestly? It’s actually pretty nice.

The restaurant is a traditional Italian place, and even with its candles and mood lighting that make Jim feel uncomfortably like two chefs are about to appear and start singing _Bella Notte_ , the food far outstrips anything a replicator can cough up, and the company is even better. They manage to avoid ship talk all night, which is pretty impressive for them, getting embroiled instead in a philosophical debate regarding Starfleet’s potentially colonialist new first contact policies.

By the end of the evening the only thing niggling at Jim is how weirdly _datelike_ the whole thing feels; nice, sure, but also vaguely concerning because he’s been drinking half-decent wine so his cheeks are pleasantly warm and his head is just a little fuzzy and Spock’s hand is right _there_ on the table, only a few inches away, and if this _was_ a date he could totally just reach out and twist their fingers together.

He doesn’t though. Because it’s _not_ a date, just friends enjoying a meal together. He does enjoy it, despite that.

He’s still buzzing when they pick T’Androma up from the medlabs and head back to their room, and Spock must notice that, because he gives Jim a thoughtful look for a few seconds as they unlock their door.

“We have no pressing engagements tomorrow for which you will need to rise early, and I believe the vidscreen in our room has a large range of terran media available to consume,” Spock opens the door, then glances back at Jim, “I recall that you once expressed an interest in better acquainting me with vintage ‘science fiction’ films?”

Jim’s eyes widen and it takes him a few seconds to remember that he’s meant to be following Spock into the room, “Wait, you mean - you want to watch movies with me? _Fiction_ movies? Old illogical sci-fi with ridiculous pseudo-science and outdated graphics?”

Spock carefully deposits the drowsing T’Androma in her cot, tucks her in with a gentleness that totally distracts Jim for several moments, then straightens up and raises an eyebrow at him, “Is the purpose of spending time with a friend socially not to gain new experiences according to their companion’s preferences in order to enrich one’s own personal existence?”

Well, never let it be said that James T Kirk looks a gift horse in the mouth.

And then he thinks,  _friend_ , Spock said _friend_ , and suddenly it’s not just the wine making him feel warm and fuzzy.

Spock’s not wrong about the vidscreen having plenty of terran media available to choose from, and it takes him quite a while to decide what to go for. There’s a lot of pressure picking Spock’s first ever exposure to scifi - if he picks something terrible he might never be indulged like this again, but if he picks _well_ then he might get another chance. And there's the extra issue around how it’s possible that the wine is making concentrating on anything other than Spock’s use of the word _friend_ really really difficult. Eventually he chooses something with less terrible science and more exploration of moral consciousness and, trying not to think too much about it, settles down next to Spock on his bed, shoulder to shoulder, before he hits play.

*

Jim wakes up to an awful crick in his neck. When he moves to alleviate the awkward angle, his pillow shifts beneath him which makes him realise his pillow is warm, and solid and firm and distinctly person-shaped.

He blinks and realises he’s still sitting on the bed against the headboard with his arms wrapped around a delightfully well-padded bicep, his cheek squashed against a warm shoulder. He groans, straightening up and rubbing his eyes.

_Jim?_

Jim jumps, and it’s at this point that his brain decides to point out that the nice, solid, warm body he’s been cuddled up to is _Spock_.

_My apologies, I had hoped that speaking within your mind would avoid startling you. Are you...distressed?_

Jim realises that he’s scooted away across the bed and is currently staring, wide-eyed, at his first officer so he probably does look quite distressed, _No, no, I just, uh - did I fall asleep on you?_

 _You did,_ Spock takes the opportunity now that Jim is no longer asleep on him to straighten out his shirt, _It was not an issue; I spent the night meditating and have achieved optimum rest._

 _Well. Good,_ Jim runs a hand through his hair, _Just...just move me next time, alright? You don’t need to let me drool all over your shoulder, I’ve got my own bed._

Spock watches him stand, his face doing that Currently Processing Illogical Data thing, _I have expressed to you that your position when you fell asleep caused me no inconvenience, and yet you persist in your negative reactions regarding it. Is there an additional problem?_

 _No, I’m just…_ reeling from how cliché it is that we went out for dinner then watched a movie, and I fell asleep on your shoulder, for god’s sake, so I’m having real difficulty repressing my weird romantic feelings about this which I know are inappropriate and unfair because you’re probably not even aware that this could be anything more than platonic?

 _I’m fine, Spock,_ Jim says, thankful he’s got his mental shields to keep his thoughts to himself and forces a smile, _I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’re not a big fan of the touching stuff, so I figured me falling asleep on you would make you uncomfortable._

Spock settles his hands primly in his lap, a sure sign of Oncoming Logic, _In the last few weeks you have suffered from sleep deprivation which, according to Doctor McCoy, is an ongoing condition you experience most acutely when you are stressed. Shore leave is a period intended for relaxation and therefore an ideal time for your personal recuperation, and as such I would be remiss as both your first officer and your friend if I were to deny you this rest. In short, I was not uncomfortable and I did not wish to wake you, so I did not._

It’s the second time Spock’s referred to him as his _friend_ in twenty-four hours.

 _Thanks, Spock_ , he smiles, rubbing the back of his neck, _I’m gonna go have a shower, make the most of not having a water ration._

As he heads into the bathroom he feels a warmth pressing against his end of the connection, and Spock says, _You are welcome, Jim_.

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE:_ _2261.187._

_I’m on shore leave so technically I don’t need to do these, but I thought it would be best to keep an official record of our supplies for the end-of-shore-leave party. I’ve attached a note with the list to this log and I’ll pass them on to Quartermaster Addams tonight - thankfully we stocked up pretty well last time we passed through Yorktown because as we all know, replicated alcohol is literally the worst thing ever. Chekov puked green for like three days last time. I was lucky I didn’t have to use the communal bathrooms..._

_Shore leave has been pretty chill, mostly Spock and I have been hanging out by the lake and in the courtyard garden playing chess. T’Androma really likes the plants and I thought her eyes might pop out of her head when she saw all that water!_

_Hanging out with a baby and getting to see all this stuff with her as she sees it for the first time? It’s seriously cute. Actually way more fun than I thought it would be._

_And doing it all with Spock too is… well, it’s pretty awesome. Turns out we make a great team both professionally and personally. I think maybe-_

_Looks like he’s coming back - Kirk out!_

_*_

Jim glances up as Spock approaches from the direction of the canteen, carrying two mugs; they’d brought one of the chess sets from the courtyard down to the bank by the lake so that T’Androma could lie in the grass and wriggle all she liked without one of them needing to concentrate on holding her, and when Jim had started yawning Spock had volunteered to go and find him caffeine.

It’s conscientious and gentlemanly and sweet and a whole bunch of other nauseatingly soppy words Jim tries not to think too loudly.

He takes the coffee with a smile of thanks, watching as Spock lowers himself to the ground and then takes a sip of his tea.

It’s because Jim’s specifically watching him that he notices the way Spock’s eyes widen, the way his cheeks bulge ever so slightly, and the pause before he swallows, as if it is an act of willpower to force himself to do it.

 _Bad tea?_ Jim asks, trying to reign in his amusement as Spock’s nostrils flare ever so slightly and he sets the mug down on the grass a little further away than necessary.

“...Exceptionally,” Spock murmurs, in a pinched tone.

It’s become comfortable and easy to swap between conversing mentally and verbally, to the point where sometimes Jim doesn’t even realise when they switch, it’s just a thread of pure communication. He thinks he maybe enjoys it too much, but there’s a little part of him growing now, some tiny hopeful goblin that’s thinking, maybe, just maybe, Spock’s enjoying it a bit too much too. Maybe he’s thriving on that terrible wonderful experience of being totally understood just as much as Jim is.

Jim takes sip of his coffee and barely refrains from doing a spit-take himself, “Oh, god, wow, that’s _awful_ , where did you get this?”

“The cafeteria replicator,” Spock glances back at his own mug dubiously, “I shall not be utilising it further.”

“Yeah, I think that’s for the best,” Jim mutters, up-ending his mug and tipping the contents onto the grass. He catches a flicker of something almost scandalised from Spock, so he looks up, eyebrows raised, “What?”

“You are wasting resources.”

“Well I wasn’t gonna drink it, so it was already wasted. And you don’t want to drink yours, right?”

Spock looks down at his own mug, and then repeats in a slightly strained tone, as if he’s trying to convince himself, “You are _wasting_ resources.”

Jim stretches out his legs and, holding eye contact with Spock, kicks over the mug. Spock’s mouth twitches.

“Oops,” Jim says, deadpan.

Spock sets the mug back upright with a loud exhale, “Perhaps it would be best that we return to our room for hot drinks, as the replicator there produces far more palatable beverages.”

“Good call,” Jim says, picking up his mug and tipping his king on the chessboard, “We’re pretty much done here anyway.”

They collect their stuff - Spock taking the mugs and the chessboard, Jim scooping up T’Androma. She makes a loud scream of protest and thrashes a bit, the feel of the grass and the sun glinting on the wide expanse of the lake being her favourite sensory experiences so far. He’s got the hang of the bouncing thing now, which calms her a little until he projects an image of the hotel room and the bottles of formula stashed in the mini-fridge, and she goes quiet. The prospect of food usually does the trick when she’s cranky.

His PADD tucked under his arm pings and with Spock’s assistance he extricates it.

“Uhura’s messaged me twice today about the end-of-shore-leave drinks,” he grumbles, “She seems to be under the impression that I’m gonna _forget_ them.”

Spock looks into the middle distance, “If there were ever a situation where one might desire to have selective amnesia, it is after having spent an evening sober in the company of those who have become inebriated in order to celebrate the end of shore leave.”

Jim’s eyes grow wide, “Holy crap, was that a _joke_?”

“Negative. It was merely speculation.”

“That,” Jim says, leaning into Spock’s personal space with a grin and enjoying the way Spock doesn’t move away, just raises his eyebrows, “Was _definitely_ a joke. And don’t worry, it’s my turn to be chaperone with you this time, I think between us we can make sure nothing gets too weird.”

They approach the courtyard, where Spock carefully sets the chessboard back in its place, “I still believe that when creating the regulations regarding alcohol consumption aboard Starfleet vessels the admiralty drastically underestimated the supervision required - two command-level officers are hardly sufficient.”

“Probably. But I reckon we can handle it.”

They walk in silence for a few moments, and Jim gets the impression Spock is thinking about the best way to word something.

“I believe I am aware as to why Nyota is so eager to ensure these festivities go smoothly,” he says eventually.

Jim glances at him as they enter the building, “Uhuh?”

“Before we left for shore leave she stated that she is experiencing the beginnings of romantic interest for another crewmember, so perhaps she is hoping that the widespread inebriation and lack of inhibition will allow her to make tentative suggestions of her interest towards that individual and then if she is rejected she can later suggest that her behaviour was caused by the influence of alcohol. It is strategic behaviour I have observed many humans employ whilst-”

“Woah, woah, wait!” Jim cuts in, his brain catching up, “Uhura has a _crush?_ On who?”

Spock suddenly looks awkward, possibly even alarmed, “I…I believe I may have overstepped in revealing this to you - I have been informed that there are certain unwritten rules regarding being informed of romantic interest by a friend and most of them suggest that one should not reveal this information to others. This is the first time I have been privy to such facts so I am endeavouring to be respectful of these boundaries.”

Spock’s very serious concern is honestly adorable. Jim takes pity on him as he punches in their floor number in the lift, “You mean she asked you to keep it a secret?”

“Not as such.”

“It’s alright, Spock, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t think she’d want you to.”

Spock thinks about it for a few moments, “I think perhaps it would be best if I did not share the identity of the crewmember, however I can assure you that such a relationship would not conflict with Starfleet regulations.”

“Oh I wasn’t worried about that, I trust Uhura’s judgement,” Jim shrugs, “And, at any rate, I don’t think she’d go for the whole drunken confession thing, she’s way more direct than that. If she told someone she’s into them she’d want them both to be sober so she could trust the response they gave her.”

“That seems like an accurate assumption given her behaviour in most circumstances,” Spock says, nodding.

Jim shifts T’Androma in his arms, trying to mentally calculate the best way to stay nonchalant about this, “So, how do you feel about Uhura moving on? That’s gotta be weird,” he rolls his eyes, “And you can skip the part where you tell me that Vulcans don’t ‘feel’ anything and just give me a proper answer.”

Spock’s mouth pinches at the perceived insult of having _emotions_ , but he obliges, “I have no feelings regarding the matter besides satisfaction that Nyota may experience happiness in a future romantic relationship.”

“Huh. Most people get kind of uncomfortable at the prospect of an ex moving on before they do.”

“We agreed when we ended our relationship that we would be free to pursue other romantic interests without interference. I believe she would be just as supportive were I to enter into a new relationship.”

“Huh,” Jim says again, because what he really wants to do is push further into the prospect of Spock _pursuing other romantic interests_ but that feels just a little too transparent. Even for him “It, uh...it sounds like a pretty healthy breakup.”

Spocks nods slightly, "It was a mutual decision that while we enjoyed each other's company more, we experienced less interpersonal tension when our relationship was strictly platonic.”

“Right,” Jim says, nodding back vaguely, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

They head out of the lift and back to their room. As Spock works on convincing their personal replicator to produce something drinkable, Jim sets T’Androma in his lap with her bottle and is perusing the movies available on the vidscreen when his PADD pings again.

This time it’s not Uhura, it’s a different notification - the one he’s got set up to let him know if the _USS Bradbury_ appears in Starfleet reports or galactic news.

“I believe this beverage should be more palatable,” Spock says, offering a mug. When Jim doesn’t take it, Spock approaches and glances at the PADD, “Jim?”

Jim feels like his heart has lurched out of his chest. He can’t make his eyes focus on reading the article but certain words jump out at him - _USS Bradbury_ ... _Klingons...severe engineering damage_... _rising fatality count_ …

_Jim?_

“My mom’s on the _Bradbury_ ,” he croaks, “She’s in engineering.”

Spock’s eyes widen minutely, “You should contact her to ascertain her safety.”

Jim thinks back to the hospital, after Khan - when he’d woken to find the evidence of his mother’s desperate attempts to contact him on his PADD, how he’d told himself he’d get back to her when he was better - when he was more himself again, so he wouldn’t worry her so much - and how the weeks had turned into months and she’d eventually stopped trying and he’d not really forgotten, but the guilt had drifted to the back of his mind.

And now the tables have turned.

“When was the last time you spoke with her?” Spock asks, clearly picking up on his hesitation.

“During the party after I was officially given the _Enterprise_ ,” Jim runs a hand through his hair, “I mean, we’ve sent messages at Christmas and birthdays but...that was the last time we actually vidcalled,” he swallows, looking back down at the article. “She wanted to tell me she was proud of me but I was drunk so she cut it short.”

“That was several years ago. I assume there are unresolved issues you were attempting to avoid?”

Jim snorts, “You could say that, yeah.”

Spock doesn’t respond. Jim stares down at the article on his PADD and Spock studies the mugs in his hands.

 _You should contact her, Jim_.

He’s taken aback by the force of emotion behind the message Spock sends him; Jim sifts through it, tries to interpret it, and realises it’s regret, pain, loss and loneliness all tangled up. There’s more in there too, things Spock wishes he’d told his mother, things he wishes he hadn’t. There’s a memory of him and his father, Sarek, sitting awkwardly together trying to mend the cracks in a relationship that they’d both neglected for so many years, suddenly aware of how fleeting - how horrifically delicate - life can be.

Jim swallows, grip tightening on the PADD, _I don’t want to. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that if I call her I’ll find out that she’s - gone. I’m afraid that I’ll call and she’ll still be there and then I won’t know what to say._

_If she is deceased, are there things you would regret about your relationship?_

_Yeah_ , Jim looks down at T’Androma, _Some_.

 _Then you should call her_.

Spock’s right. He usually is. Jim nods and pulls up Lieutenant-Commander Winona Kirk’s contact information.

 _I will leave to allow you privacy,_ Spock sets the coffee on the bedside table, _Do you wish me to take T’Androma with me?_

_Nah, she’s fine. She usually goes sleepy after eating so she won’t be a problem._

Spock hesitates, then reaches out to press a hand against Jim’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but the touch speaks magnitudes. Suddenly Jim feels braver.

When the door slides closed Jim takes a deep breath and hits _call_. The connection buffers. His heart hammers against his ribs.

_Buffering…_

_Buffering…_

_Buffering…_

_CONNECTION ESTABLISHED._

The picture loads, and she's there; there's a bruise on her cheekbone but otherwise she looks fine, she's smiling at him and he feels sick with the rush of relief.

“Mom!” he blurts, “The extranet said the _Bradbury_ was hit, and I…”

He can't find the words, but he can tell by Winona’s expression that she understands what he's trying to say.

“The media exaggerated a lot of it for anti-Klingon propaganda; we had a minor skirmish against a mining vessel with delusions of grandeur and one of our dilithium crystals was pushed out of alignment long enough to cause a small explosion,” she explains, then her voice grows more gentle, “I'm alright, Jimmy.”

She's the only one that's ever got away with calling him that. It feels awkward - stupid nicknames are a level of emotional closeness they haven't had in years. Thinking about it, he's not sure if it was ever there. They're so far apart now that where they used to be actually seems close.

She looks...well. That's the only way to put it. She is different to the woman he remembers as his mother, but somehow she's more _herself_. The mother he knew had always seemed somehow fractured.

Her hair is honey blonde and pulled back in a messy ponytail; in his earliest memories it was short and spiky around her ears, and in the few holos they had in the house of her with dad it was long and curly. He estimates that if it were down now, it would rest comfortably on her shoulders. A compromise. Although there are more lines around her eyes now, the shadows beneath them are no longer dark and haunted.

He wonders if the thing inside Winona Kirk that tore on the day of his birth is finally starting to heal.

He takes a deep breath, “Look, Mom, I'm sorry I haven't-”

She holds up a hand, “No, you don't need to apologise. I've… I've got some things to say, if you've got time to talk?”

“Sure, Mom.”

There are short wavy strands of flyaway hair framing Winona’s face; she tucks them behind her ears and bites her lip as she tries to get her thoughts into order.

“Two years ago you almost _died,_ and I…when I got the message that you were in hospital in a coma, that the radiation poisoning had been _this_ close to fatal, I thought, enough is enough. I'd wasted too many years with my head in the sand and I'd been so close to losing you...I decided, that was it. I was gonna do everything I could to make things right. So I called you - nearly every day actually - and you never answered, and at first I thought, maybe you were still ill, but then after a month, after six weeks,” she looks down at her hands, “When my calls started bouncing, I decided that, maybe, what was best for you, what would make you happy and healthy...wasn't _me_. You're an adult and you can make your own decisions, so I let go of you.

“God, this is weird to finally be able to say out loud. And maybe it’s selfish but I need to say it - I love you Jim and I haven’t always been a good mom. I was never there when you needed me. Frank, Tarsus...I always turned up a little too late, when the damage was already done, when it was too late to fix everything. I suppose that's the story of our whole relationship. And it’s my fault. There aren't enough apologies in the whole galaxy to make up for all the times I let you down, and I understand if you can't trust me, but if there's any way at all we can move forward now, I am willing to do whatever it takes."

Jim breathes in shakily, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. He wants to scream and rage, spit _how dare you ask for forgiveness after all these years how dare you make me want to trust you when I told myself I didn't_ need _you when I managed just fine without you how dare you._ But he thinks about Spock and the look in his eyes whenever he talks about Amanda, and even if Jim can never have even half of that relationship with his own mother, he can’t bring himself to ignore her if she wants to try.

His chest is tight with years of jumbled emotions. His breath is shallow. His eyes sting.

“I think I need time to think about it,” he manages to choke out, “Can we talk about something else?”

“Of course,” Winona says quickly, “Uh…” she casts around awkwardly for something to say, clearly not wanting to end the call, “You don’t look like you’re on the ship, are you on shore leave?”

Jim lifts the PADD up so she can see the view out the window, “Yeah, this is Itamish III, in the Itamish system.”

“I’ve never been in that neck of the woods,” she tilts her head with a wistful smile, “Looks green.”

“The greenest - it’s an agricultural colony with a science and medical base.”

Winona rests her chin on her fist, “Ugh, I’m jealous, we’ve been stuck on the Outer Rim for what feels like forever, and we don’t head back to Yorktown for another solar month. Tell me about Itamish, what is it like?”

Jim feels the tension begin to ease. The early memories he has of Winona are all in the fields around the house in Iowa; taking apart her old gas-powered motorbike, watching her and Grandma chop firewood, stargazing on clear nights. Scabby knees, grease-covered hands, sunburnt shoulders, freckled cheeks - the kind of wholesome apple pie crap that soured when Grandma died and Frank got saddled with looking after him when Winona shipped out.

He glances back out of the window and tries to channel some of that distant nostalgic warmth, “There’s this huge lake by the science facilities,” he begins, picturing it in his mind’s eye, “So big you can’t see the other end of it, and it has a massive hydroelectric dam to power everything, but it’s part of the building itself and they’ve turned it into a glass walkway with a café - so you can sit and look out over the water while you drink your shitty replicated coff-” Jim gesticulates a little too excitedly and jostles T’Androma in his lap, who wakes from her drowse with a loud high-pitched noise that demands immediate attention.

On the other end of the vidfeed Winona jumps, “What was that? Do you have a cat or something?”

Jim looks down at the baby who is now making insistent grabby hands up at him. He hadn’t intended to bring up the complicated matter of T’Androma with his mother, but when he looks into those blue eyes all he can think of is that moment on the ambassadorial ship, when he first held her, and how much he’d _felt_. Even if Winona never gets to meet her in person and never sees or hears about her again, T’Androma is family. It’ll _mean_ something to Winona, to know.

“Uh, no, not a cat,” he clears his throat awkwardly, “So, um, there’s someone you should meet.”

Winona's eyes widen a little, “Okay?”

Jim flips out the stand for the PADD and sets it on the bed, then dips his hands underneath T'Androma and lifts her up so that he’s holding her against his chest. He glances up to see Winona with her hands over her mouth.

“Oh my g- Jim, are you-? Is that-?”

“She’s four months old, her name is T’Androma,” he laughs as Winona continues to croak, and jiggles T’Androma a little to see if she’ll smile, “Are you gonna wave hi to grandma?”

“Hi, honey,” Winona says weakly, waving. T’Androma doesn’t understand the words just yet, but she recognises the action and immediately reciprocates, flapping enthusiastically and babbling. Winona makes another strangled sound.

“Are you okay, Mom?” Jim asks gently, unable to restrain a grin when she scowls at him.

“James Tiberius Kirk-! I am _fine_ , thank you very much,” she sniffs and rubs her eyes with the heel of a hand, “Most people get nine or so months to prepare for this sort of thing...”

“Sorry,” he says, his grin widening unrepentantly.

She clears her throat and sniffs again, before attempting a more composed smile, “So, what’s the situation with this? Is there another parent involved?”

“That's, uh, where things get a little complicated,” He shifts T’Androma and tilts her head to expose one tiny pointed ear. Winona's eyebrows shoot up.

“A _Vulcan_?”

Jim grimaces, “Like, _really_ complicated.”

He does his best to explain briefly, concisely, and in a way that leaves out as much of his personal crises and adoration of Spock as possible. There’s a lot of careful wording involved. Winona seems to follow it all pretty well, though when he peters off with “And now we’re on shore leave…” she’s still frowning thoughtfully.

“So after you finish shore leave you’re going back to New Vulcan?”

“Yep.”

“And you’re going to leave her with her moms.”

“That’s right.”

“...Who are still both in their Vulcan Mind Healing Coma-Whatever-Things?”

“Well, yeah,” Jim rubs the back of his neck, “Though Bones is pretty confident that at least one of them will be awake by then.”

Winona raises her eyebrows, “And if they’re not?”

“I have a few contacts on New Vulcan,” he says, smiling at the thought of Ambassador Spock looking after a tiny baby, “I’ll make sure something gets sorted.”

T’Androma starts wriggling and grumbling so Winona distracts her by playing peek-a-boo over the vidcall whilst Jim gets up to find her chew toy. When they’re settled again, Jim lying propped up on pillows with T’Androma against his chest, curled up and gumming enthusiastically, Winona gives him a probing look.

“Jimmy,” she says gently, “I realise this may be none of my business but… are you gonna be okay letting her go?”

 _Oh, god,_ Jim thinks. He looks down at T’Androma. She’s drooling all over his favourite shirt, but when she notices him looking her she tilts her head back and smiles. It’s a really weird dichotomy of gross and adorable, and it doesn’t make his answer any easier.

“I’m gonna have to be,” he says. Winona hums, like she’s not surprised by his response.

He takes a deep breath, then, not quite daring himself to meet her eyes, says, “How did _you_ do it?”

“What, leave you?” Winona snorts, “By being really, really good at running away from my issues, and by believing that if I buried my pain long enough it would eventually stop hurting,” she snorts again, “It’s a bad method, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Jim rolls his eyes, “Yeah, I’ve figured that one out the hard way.”

She reaches out a hand to touch her PADD screen, face softening, “Whatever happens, I’m proud of you. You seem to be handling this much better than I did.”

“Uh, thanks, but I’m not sure our experiences are really comparable…”

“Still,” She grins, “She’s lucky to have you, and I’m sure she’ll understand that one day.”

“Unlikely - she’s a Vulcan, Vulcans don’t _believe_ in luck. It’s illogical.”

Winona leans closer to the screen, “Jimmy, even if you never ever see her again and she spends her whole life hidden in some secret temple in a mountain training to become an Über-Vulcan that cannot be tainted by illogical concept of luck, she’ll _still_ be very lucky to have you.”

He shakes his head, “Very lucky to have our genes, you mean.”

Winona winks, “Well, that too.”


	13. Chapter 13

Jim looks up the time difference between Itamish III and New Vulcan - they’re three solar hours ahead, it turns out, which is surprisingly convenient - and he and Spock call Ambassador Spock the next day with the intention of officially establishing what will happen to T’Androma should Seliea and T’Mir be unable to care for her due to medical reasons.

“A logical suggestion,” Spock says evenly when Jim mentions it.

“Aw,” Jim says, grinning widely, “You think I’m logical, Spock?”

Spock exhales and looks to the ceiling, “There are instances in which your ideas are not without merit.”

It’s not really a compliment but it’s close enough to warm him.

 _Shit_ , Jim thinks, _am I pathetic or what?_

That warmth in his chest flares again like a supernova when the vidcall buffers and Ambassador Spock appears on the screen, with that affectionate look in his eyes and one of his not-quite-smiles. It’s only been a few months since they last saw each other but already the older man looks more frail. Jim’s heart clenches and he prays to anyone who’s listening that the already ancient Vulcan can hold out a bit longer.

Ambassador Spock holds up the ta’al, “Jim, Commander Spock, I am gratified to find that you are both unharmed after the Andorian separatist incident.”

“We owe our safety largely to the efforts of Lieutenant Uhura and Commander Scott,” Spock explains.

The Ambassador nods, “They are two exceedingly resourceful individuals.”

“T’Androma’s here too,” Jim lifts her up and bounces her until she laughs, “I thought it was only fair since we were talking about her future and all. T’Androma, can you say _deef-tor heh samoosa_?”

“ _Dif-tor heh smusma_ ,” First Officer Spock corrects instantly, under his breath.

“Fascinating,” Ambassador Spock says, at the same time, almost reverently. Then he pinches his lips together as if the word had slipped out accidentally.

Obviously T’Androma can’t say it. But when Jim waves, she copies. There’s an odd look in Ambassador Spock’s eyes; Jim initially thought it was reverence but now he thinks it might be something more like wonder. His heart clenches in his chest again and he wants to ask the old Vulcan whether he’d had kids back in his universe - though judging by the _wonder_ , he’s already fairly confident of the answer.

He can’t even begin to imagine what must be going through Spock Prime’s head. He tries to think about what it might be like if the other universe Jim had a kid and then _he_ got to meet them; disconcerting, at the very least. Probably lots of confusing feelings. All sorts of messed up. Yikes.

“We are required to vacate our room in 4.32 hours, so it is necessary that we be brief in order that we may conclude our activities here and ensure a timely departure,” the younger Spock says abruptly. Jim gets the sense, probably from the connection, that Spock’s concerned about his older counterpart giving some kind of emotional display.

“Of course,” Ambassador Spock nods, and just like that the strange look in his eyes is gone. Sometimes Jim forgets that whilst he’s a weird Vulcan, he’s still a _Vulcan_ , “What can I assist you with?”

“We wish to discuss the options for T’Androma’s care on New Vulcan should we return before either of the Ambassadors have completed their _yuk t' hakausu_.” Commander Spock explains.

Ambassador Spock considers this for a moment, “Have you considered the possibility of her staying with yourselves on the _Enterprise_?”

“That would hardly be appropriate,” Spock objects, at the same time as Jim blurts, “What? We’re not stealing their baby whilst they’re asleep!”

“Becoming her guardians would be neither inappropriate nor thievery; on the _Enterprise_ she would have the care of people she trusts, a familiar environment, and the parental bond that she shares with you both would not be so abruptly severed. Furthermore, as her next of kin, the duty of care would legally next pass onto you regardless,” Ambassador Spock says calmly, “It is the best solution, I believe.”

“Your conclusion is based primarily on the emotional needs of T’Androma, and only secondarily on logic,” Commander Spock points out rather stiffly.

“Perhaps there is a little compassion mixed into my logic then. _Sanoi be' dvun abru' t'nash-veh lafosh_ : please, forgive me,” Ambassador Spock says, and Jim could swear that the old Vulcan _winks_ , “For I am, after all, very old.”

Jim swallows, T’Androma suddenly heavy in his arms but his head feeling light as ideas around the prospect of her staying on the _Enterprise_ begin to spin in his mind. She could sleep in Spock's quarters and they could carry on their weird but nice little routine of cohabitation. Maybe they'd hear her first word - what age did babies start talking and walking anyway? He'd have to do research. Visions of a toddler with dark hair and bright eyes and a wide gappy grin staggering around the corridors of the ship swim across his mind's eye, a new future opening up-

And then one distant, undetermined day, she would leave them again.

Could he really do that - embroil her further into his life only to then let her go at a later point? It's barely been over a week and he knows leaving her on New Vulcan is going to be difficult. How would he handle a month, two months?

And then there's also that niggle of guilt squirming in his gut around the idea of Seliea and T’Mir, T’Androma's _legal_ guardians, waking up to find that he and Spock have just swanned off with the baby. They'd relinquished their parental roles when they'd not applied for custody whilst she was in the tank, so suddenly taking on that role without permission feels... wrong.

“Keeping T’Androma on the _Enterprise_ for an extended period could be possible, and certainly it would be preferable to avoid the trauma of breaking our mental connection with her without her mothers there to support her,” Commander Spock speculates thoughtfully, “However I believe it would be worth exploring the options available on New Vulcan.”

Both Spocks turn to look at Jim, who looks down at T’Androma. Instinctively he wants her to stay - of course he does - but he cannot ignore the guilt, undeniable and painful like a splinter under his skin.

“I agree with Spock - uh, _Commander_ Spock, that is - we should pursue every option available before making a decision. I don’t feel that it would be appropriate for us to leave New Vulcan with T’Androma without the full consent of her parents.”

Spock Prime raises an eyebrow, “You are her biological parents,” he points out.

“Just because she was created with our DNA doesn't mean that we are more important or worthy parental candidates than the women who have cared for her her whole life,” Jim says, jaw clenched, “Biological relation is irrelevant. They are her moms and her legal guardians and I will not remove her from their care unless I have their consent, or unless it is absolutely necessary.”

There's a warmth seeping into his mind and it takes him a few seconds to realise that it's _Spock_ , projecting his approval and admiration, telling him without words that he's doing the right thing. He doesn't dare look at him, afraid that what he might see in his first officer’s face could drive him to do something reckless, like kiss him. He looks to the other Spock instead, expecting to find confusion or disapproval, but instead there is nothing but that ever-present gentle affection, glowing in his eyes and the lines of his face like it's the one constant in the universe.

Having so much positivity being poured on him at once is almost overwhelming. He feels like he might burst.

“I understand,” Ambassador Spock says, mouth twitching at the corner as if he can barely restrain a smile, “And so it shall be.”

Jim wonders if perhaps he has reminded the older Vulcan of his _own_ Jim. It's a nice thought, honestly - that he might finally be beginning to resemble the legend of a man that he's been chasing ever since he glimpsed him in the mindmeld on Delta Vega.

They finish the vidcall with a few formalities around paperwork they'll have to draw up considering temporary guardianship of T’Androma, irrespective of whether she stays on the _Enterprise_ or passes into the care of another family on New Vulcan. Jim puts the baby in question down for her nap, then settles on his bed to run through the end-of-shore-leave party prep on his PADD.

“Got any plans for today, Spock?” he asks, absently patting the mattress beside him. Spock sits in the indicated space; a stupid little gesture, but it's the kind of friendly and casual behaviour he never would’ve been able to coax out of his first officer a few years ago. He does his best to hold back a dopey smile.

“There is a lecture this afternoon being presented by a scientist greatly esteemed within the biosynthesis research community. If you do not require my presence, I should like to attend.”

All sorts of dangerous thoughts about what Jim could possibly _require_ Spock for on shore leave clamour in his mind but he quickly pushes them away and pats Spock on the forearm with a smile, “It’s your shore leave too, Spock, you don’t need my permission.”

“Is it not customary to clearly communicate one’s plans during a period of shared social time?”

“Well yeah, but-” Jim laughs and pats Spock’s arm again, “Nevermind. Sure, you go to the lecture, I was thinking of taking T’Androma to see her moms after her nap anyway, I’ll meet you in the lobby at beam-up time.”

Jim lets his hand linger for a few moments. Spock’s forearm is warm under the sleeve of his crisp white shirt, and with an electrifying thrill he realises his thumb is touching the sensitive skin of Spock’s inner wrist - and that Spock hasn’t moved away from that touch. Skin on skin contact with no practical purpose is intimate for Vulcans, Jim knows. Tentatively, he skims his thumb back and forth a few times, lightly enough that he could pass it off as nothing if Spock pulls back

He doesn’t.

Jim couldn’t have imagined that touching another guy’s _wrist_ could get his heart pounding but, well, here he is. He brushes his thumb back and forth a few more times, and then traces it in circles, deliberate repetitive shapes that can’t be shrugged off as accidental, all the while waiting for Spock to snatch his hand away, scandalised.

But he _doesn’t_.

Jim dares to glance up and sucks in a sharp breath when he meets the intensity of Spock’s gaze; it’s almost that specimen-under-a-microscope focus like when he was cross-examining Jim about his intentions towards Doctor Cài, but this time instead of coldness in his gaze there’s something burning. Something different. Something _better_.

The air is heavy with tension. It feels like the whole galaxy has frozen around them, just waiting to see what’ll happen. Spock’s so close and he’s letting Jim touch him, he’s not pulling away, Jim could just lean in and-

T’Androma, abruptly deciding she doesn't want to nap, screams at the top of her lungs.

The moment doesn’t so much end as completely evaporate. Jim jumps, yelping and releasing his hold on Spock, who immediately climbs off the bed and goes to soothe the baby.

Jim stares into space for a few moments, trying to will his heartbeat back to normal and figure out what the _hell_ just happened. Did he _actually_ just nearly kiss Spock, or was this some weird situation he totally misread and really, what had felt like time stopping in that moment, was just a few seconds of him weirdly stroking Spock’s arm and Spock wondering how best to approach writing him up for a psych eval?

“It appears she is under-stimulated,” Spock is holding out a grouchy-looking T’Androma towards him, “Perhaps being reunited with her parents will improve her mood.”

 _But_ we’re _her parents too_ , Jim thinks, still bewildered. The thought comes out of nowhere, hurts in a way that is completely unexpected, and does absolutely nothing to help him compose himself.

He nods distractedly, taking T’Androma, “Yeah, sure.”

“The lecture will begin in 34.17 minutes; it will take me 12 minutes to reach the appropriate conference room, by which time the lecturer will have arrived to set up and I will have ample time to discuss my personal findings with them before the talk begins. I will therefore depart presently.”

“Yeah,” Jim repeats in a mumble, stomach sinking as he realises that Spock’s making a somewhat pointed, sudden exit, and feels the onset of I-Fucked-Up-Ness coming to swamp him, “Sure.”

“Jim?”

Despite every instinct telling him to curl up in a ball of humiliation and pray he never sees the light of day again, Jim looks up. There’s a warmth in Spock’s dark eyes again - not the sharp, bright heat of a flame like before, but the gentle warmth of banked coals - and somehow, abruptly, it makes everything alright.

“Yeah?” Jim croaks.

Spock reaches out and, in a clearly deliberate echo of before, squeezes Jim’s wrist, brushing his fingers very briefly against Jim’s hand as he pulls away, “I will see you later.”

Jim, apparently having lost all concept of eloquence and intelligence, manages another vague, “Yeah,” as he watches Spock leave their room. He stares after him for a couple of seconds, heart fluttering with an unusual kind of hope.

Spock’s not mad at him. Spock, god help him, is actively _encouraging_ him.

He looks down at T’Androma, who is apparently no longer in a bad mood. She smiles and babbles nonsensically up at him. He sighs.

“You are a _menace_ ,” he grumbles, “You’re lucky you’re cute, kiddo.”

*

When Jim arrives in the medical wing Bones is in the middle of packing up and signing off reports, so he just waves them through. Seliea and T’Mir lie silent and still on their biobeds. Jim pulls up a chair between them, a half-formed plan building in his mind as he sets T’Androma down on Seliea’s bed, close enough so that the baby’s warm body presses against her arm.

Just like last time, T’Androma immediately goes quiet and serene, and Jim’s plan takes shape; if the Vulcan ambassadors are connected to T’Androma's mind, then he might be able to reach them, and might be able to lay some of the confusing mess in his head to rest. It's a long shot, but it's the best idea he has.

He closes his eyes and pictures the door to his quarters, pulling the image into as much clarity as he can manage. He imagines himself opening it and, keeping a firm hold on the doorframe, he leans in. Everything that is T’Androma rises up to meet him - her abstract thoughts, her emotions, her physiological state, her instincts - but with his grip on the door he can hold himself separate from it all and not get swamped. It’s like looking out over a vast lake shrouded in mist; occasionally he’ll spot ripples and glinting lights but there’s nothing solid or visually clear.

_Ambassador Seliea? Ambassador T’Mir? I really need to talk to you, if you're here…_

He tries to project the thought not loudly but expansively, letting it echo across the water. And then he waits.

There's...something coming back. A presence that surges towards him; he clenches his hands around the doorframe and braces himself, but when it hits him it's not forceful or invasive.

_Captain Kirk, I am the most healed; I will awaken and speak with thee on the physical plane._

The presence does not identify itself, however Jim knows unmistakably that it is Seliea. He hauls himself back, carefully closes the door, takes a deep breath, then opens his eyes slowly. The ward feels small, cold, and sterile compared to the bright expanse of T’Androma's mind.

Seliea, true to her word, stirs and awakens, and even behind the shutters of Vulcan propriety, the delight on her face is unmistakable when she finds T’Androma beside her. Watching her scoop the baby into her arms makes Jim's heart ache. No matter what he feels, no matter what happens, his daughter is loved and cherished by these women. That should be enough for him. That _needs_ to be enough for him.

“Captain James Kirk,” Seliea says, her Standard accented in a way that Jim can only describe as _sharp_ , making her sound almost Eastern European, “I must express my gratitude for your care of T’Androma and your actions after the separatist attack.”

Jim smiles, shrugging. He’s never really figured out how to respond to this kind of thanks, “I’m just glad we could help and that we got there in time.”

“Are Oken and Bylaar well?”

It takes Jim a few seconds to realise that she’s talking about the Andorian security team survivors, “Ah, yeah, Doctor McCoy was able to patch them up and they’re doing fine - they were actually discharged several days ago. Would you like me to call them?”

“Negative, I merely wished to ascertain their status,” She regards Jim thoughtfully, one eyebrow lifting, “There was a subject of which you wish to speak? I too have considerations that require sharing.”

Jim honestly wasn’t expecting that the psionic version of cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling loudly would actually _work_ , so the question kind of brings him up short. With the unexpected turn that the conversation with Ambassador Spock took, and the out-of-the-blue tension with Spock afterwards, he’s feeling somewhat jumbled up inside, “Then by all means, please, go first,” he says, flashing his best Captain Kirk Smile and hoping that Seliea will merely interpret it as his strange attempt to be charming.

“Very well,” she says, and then without preamble, “What do you know of the S’chn T’gai house?”

Jim considers the wording of the question and tries to extrapolate what she’s actually asking, “Spock is my First Officer, and I’ve met Ambassador Sarek...briefly.”

The last time he ‘met’ Sarek was when he’d been goading Spock about his dead mother in order to reveal his emotionally compromised state so that Jim could steal the captaincy. It was only because of Spock’s father that Spock hadn’t literally _strangled him to death_ on the bridge. He’s really, really _not_ looking forward to meeting Sarek again.

“It is his mother, the Lady Amanda, to whom I refer.”

“Ah,” Jim winces, “Unfortunately I never got the chance to meet her before the destruction of Vulcan.”

Seliea nods solemnly, “As the wife of one of Vulcan’s most prominent diplomats and an individual with a vast range of experience in the realm of adapting to ‘alien’ culture, Amanda hosted many seminars for those in ambassadorial training. T’Mir and myself attended her ambassadorial preparation course and, whilst we were initially skeptical in regards to what exactly she would be able to teach, her intelligence, insight, and...charismatic tenacity shortly convinced us of both her merit as a teacher and her exceptional nature as a representative of humanity. You could perhaps say that we grew quite...fond of her.”

She looks down at T’Androma for a few moments, then raises her head to meet Jim’s gaze again, “We were grieved to hear of her passing, and as such, when we were informed that her granddaughter required adoptive parents, we were naturally invested in the prospect of honouring and protecting her biological legacy. We named the child T’Androma, as that is the closest Vulcan equivalent of Amanda; there were some who disagreed with such a blatant display of sentimentality, especially concerning an individual of such controversy, but Ambassador Sarek approved, and that was sufficient.”

“Wait,” Jim holds up his hands in the human gesture of _hold on a moment_ , “T’Androma’s named after _Spock’s mom?_ ”

“You were unaware?”

“My Vulcan’s a little rusty,” Jim admits. He looks over at T’Androma, dozing quietly in Seliea’s arms, with no idea about the complexity and politics of her heritage, knowing only that she is safe and secure. He wonders how long she will be allowed the innocence of ignorance, “Does Spock know that you knew his mom?”

“Affirmative. It was one of the reasons why he approved our choice as T’Androma’s guardians; he believed our previous experience with human interaction would allow us to better comprehend the nature of a three-quarters-human child.”

Jim exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair, wondering how the hell Spock had managed to keep that emotional bombshell under wraps - although, he thinks ruefully, keeping ridiculously intense emotional burdens hidden seems to be his first officer’s speciality

“Captain Kirk,” Seliea says, voice quiet but firm, “I am conveying this information to you so that you may understand that this decision has not been reached without a significant period of consideration, and so that you may understand the extent of what I - what _we_ \- are sacrificing by it.”

Jim’s mouth goes dry, “What do you mean?”

“T’Mir and I have discussed it through our mindlink and believe that, instead of returning to New Vulcan with us, it would would be best for T’Androma to stay with Commander Spock and yourself on the _Enterprise_.”

Jim feels like his stomach has dropped in his shoes. His ears ring as his brain frantically tries to process the words, “What? You want us- you want us to _keep_ her?”

“As a parent I have a duty of care to T’Androma; every decision I make must reflect her best interests and ensure her continued safety. However, I also have a duty to my bondmate - T’Mir is not a doctor or a biologist, though she has studied for many years under the healers of our culture, and even with her extensive knowledge of the _yuk t’ hakausu_ , she will have severely impaired mobility for approximately 10.72 months.”

“But…” Jim struggles to pull his thoughts into coherency, “I don’t understand - there are plenty of disabled parents who raise their kids just fine.”

“It is more than that, Captain. Simply put, I do not not have the time and resources to be an Ambassador, to care for T’Mir as she recovers, _and_ to give a child the attention and investment they require to prosper. I have a duty as Ambassador to Andoria to represent the goodwill between our races; there are so few Vulcans now, and none of them have the years of training and the personal connections to take over the roles that T’Mir and I occupy. I cannot in good conscience set aside this responsibility without having a trained replacement. I also have a duty as the bondmate to T’Mir, to maintain her health and wellbeing; she has no family to support her, as they all perished when Vulcan was destroyed, she has only myself. T’Androma, however-” Seliea looks down at the baby in her arms. Her grip tightens almost imperceptibly, “There are multiple logical options for her care. She has people, here on the _Enterprise_ , who would ensure her safety and comfort. She has yourself and Commander Spock, with whom she already shares a deep mindlink and appears to have grown greatly attached to already.”

“Right,” Jim says, vaguely, purely because he’s aware that Seliea has paused and expects him to respond.

Seliea gives him a scrutinising look, but continues regardless, “Additionally, we understand that, given the extended duration of our physical recoveries, by the time that we are able to resume full guardianship your bond with T’Androma will have strengthened to the extent where it would be inadvisable to fully remove her from your care as it would risk severe psychological distress. You should be aware that if you accept this responsibility then it will likely be for several years, if not the duration of T’Androma’s childhood,” she exhales a little heavier than usual, expression on the sombre side of neutral, “T’Mir and myself have also discussed this and have agreed that if it is necessary for her health, we would be willing to have a less direct role in T’Androma’s life - for the immediate future, at least.”

She must see more in Jim’s expression than he intends, because she quickly adds, “If this is not acceptable then of course there is no obligation, and I will pursue another course of action that I may-”

“No,” Jim cards his hands through his hair again, distractedly, “That’s not what I- I mean, it’s just a lot. To think about.”

The old excuses immediately swim to the forefront of his mind again, a kneejerk reaction. _Not exactly dad material, am I?_ He’s too reckless, too inexperienced, not - _something_ \- enough. But they feel hollow now, especially when he realises the hammering of his heart is fifty percent fear, fifty percent excitement. Maybe he _could_ do this. Maybe he could raise a kid and not _totally_ screw it up. Maybe he could be a dad to his daughter, and do it all with Spock at his side.

It’s a tantalising, terrifying prospect.

“Of course,” Seliea inclines her head, “We still have several days of travel before we arrive at New Vulcan, there is plenty of time to discuss the situation with your bondmate.”

“My - my bondmate?”

Seliea raises one eyebrow, “Commander Spock is not your bondmate?”

 _Oh god_ , Jim thinks.

“No,” he says, offering a polite smile as if the situation is merely amusing, “He’s not.”

Seliea seems genuinely perplexed by this, which does nothing for the clenching ache in Jim’s chest.

“Forgive me,” she says after a few seconds, “When Commander Spock melded with myself and T’Mir I felt the presence of your mindlink, and I made an incorrect assumption. Although, you are _t’hy’la_ , are you not? The intensity of your bond, and the compatibility of your minds - there can be no mistaking it.”

“I don’t know what _tuh-high-lah_ means,” Jim admits. One of these days he needs to look up all these snippets of Vulcan that keep going over his head - _t’hy’la_ , _pon farr_ \- he feels like he’s missing out on important stuff. Maybe he should ask Spock, though his gut feeling tells him his first officer will be evasive.

Seliea gives him a long, thoughtful, appraising look. She seems to be less pissy and judgemental than most of the Vulcans Jim’s met, although her fixed gaze still makes him squirm.

“Captain Kirk, I am not yet at full health, and I must rejoin T’Mir in the _yuk t’hakausu_ in order to continue supporting her healing process,” She carefully shifts T’Androma in her arms so she can pass the baby back to Jim. As he reaches out for her, Seliea pins him again with her dark eyes, “Speak to Commander Spock and reach a decision. Know that whatever choice you make, T’Androma will always have a home with T’Mir and myself.”

“Thank you,” Jim says, swallowing.

Seliea’s mouth twitches in what Jim recognises from Spock as amusement, “And...speak to Commander Spock about _t’hy’la_.”

Jim squints at her suspiciously, “Will it make him mad at me?”

“Anger is an emotion,” Seliea reminds him primly, “Though, if it concerns you, I believe that any negative reaction you may receive will be directed towards myself, not you,” she tilts her head in what could be the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug, “The risk of potential ramifications is less than the sum value of your benefit.”

“Oh,” Jim says, blinking, “Well, thanks I guess.”

“No thanks are necessary, Captain,” Seliea offers him the ta’al as she settles back onto the bed, “Until we speak next.”

*

Later, they say their goodbyes to Doctor Cài - who approaches the conversation with a pointed lack of flirtatiousness, which is a relief - and beam back to the ship. Whilst the shore leave has been thoroughly enjoyable Jim can't help but be relieved to once more be somewhere with a colour scheme comprising of more than white, black, and varying shades of grey.

“So, Spock, we’ve got three hours until the party gets started and we’re on chaperone duty,” Jim glances at his friend, eyebrows raised, as they leave the transporter room together, “Got any plans? There was something I was hoping to have a chat about if you’re free.”

Spock tucks his hands behind his back, and immediately Jim knows that he’s busy. He’s getting _really_ good at reading Spock, the connection stretching between their minds like a psionic spiderweb feeding him the cues that he can’t get from just body language and inflection, “Doctor Marcus commed me an hour ago to tell me that our preliminary experiment has yielded time-sensitive results, however if-”

“Don’t worry about it, Spock, it can wait til tomorrow,” Jim says, smiling reassuringly, then he snorts, “I’m pretty sure alpha shift will be totally dead anyway after this evening’s shenanigans.”

Come to think of it, tomorrow would probably be better - if it could be possible to describe his first officer as ‘antsy' without facing a storm of Vulcan disapproval, that is how he would describe Spock when there’s a meeting in between him and investigating lab results. He is ever so slightly more brisk and short with his speech, and almost restless in his mannerisms, as if there is something more interesting going on behind the scenes in his head that he wants to return to.

And he wants Spock’s _full_ attention for this conversation.

“Indeed,” Spock inclines his head, “I will meet you for the security lockdown at 2000 hours.”

The afternoon passes fast with the paperwork he has left to plough through and setting up a nanny-cam feed to his personal PADD so they can supervise T’Androma all night. As he reassembles her small bedroom in Spock’s quarters he lets his mind really start to ruminate on the idea of her staying long-term; she’d need her own proper dedicated space, a better cot, a wardrobe containing more than just novelty replicated Starfleet uniforms, some decent toys...the list continues. They’re coming up for half way through their five year mission, so they’re due for a basic refit and overhaul soon. He could easily put in a request for a small bedroom to be inserted on their corridor, or - his stomach clenches at the thought - perhaps, if he’s very, very lucky, there might be the future possibility of combining his and Spock’s quarters and cordoning off part of them for her.

Seliea glimpsed Spock’s mind and whatever she saw there made her think that he and Spock were _bondmates_. That’s Vulcan for being married, but so much _more_ \- that’s a permanent, no-take-backseys, as two-become-one as it’s possible to be, life-long commitment.

And Seliea had been _surprised_ that they didn’t have that kind of bond. After whatever it was she saw in _Spock’s_ mind.

A giddy laugh escapes Jim before he can contain it. He claps a hand on his mouth but it can’t stop the wide goofy smile spreading over his face. T’Androma, lying on her back on Spock’s meditation rug, chewing industriously on her chew ring, tilts her head curiously towards him.

“I think I might just have a chance with Spock,” he tells her, voice low, both in awe and in some strange fear that voicing it too confidently will jinx him somehow.

Settling down with a partner and a baby was hardly part of his five year mission plan - hardly part of his _life_ plan, if he’s brutally honest - and there’s still part of him that’s panicking that this is too much, too soon, that he’ll be sacrificing too much for it. And maybe it _is_ too much. He knows it’s gonna be hard. But he’s always been one of those run before you can walk idiots, and when he thinks about holding hands with Spock in his mind library and the gentle uninhibited warmth T’Androma projects towards him when he smiles at her, he’s certain that he wants this. If there’s any way the three of them can exist together as a family, he wants to at least give it a try.

He’s not felt so confident that he’s making the right choice since he made the decision to bring the Hepcidin to New Vulcan. He’ll talk to Spock after alpha shift, tell him about his conversation with Seliea, explain it all - and then, if that goes well, he’ll…he’ll...

He’ll do something. He’ll tell Spock, or he’ll _show_ Spock. He’ll do whatever it takes to make Spock understand the thing in his heart that flares like a supernova at every look, every touch, every time his first officer says _Jim_ like it’s the most precious word in the galaxy. Nerves squirm in his belly, but they’re the good kind, the kind that accompany risks that usually pay off. He’s had enough of waiting and he’s ready, now.

“I’m gonna tell him tomorrow,” Jim says to T’Androma, and it starts to feel real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spent a long while editing this chapter trying to weed out any unintentional ableism, please please let me know if you feel I've missed something or messed up here - I'm little-smartass on tumblr if you want to chat :)


	14. Chapter 14

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE:_ _2261.189. Kirk here._

_End of shore leave festivities commence at 2000 hours. For the official record, First Officer Spock and I are the commanding officers remaining sober for the evening, as per regulation 691.3. We will set the security lockdown codes at 1959 and, barring any unforeseen circumstances, we will lift them at the beginning of alpha shift in order to leave our orbit of Itamish III and begin our journey to New Vulcan._

_See you on the other side!_

_Kirk out._

*

“Three...Two...One…”

Jim and Spock simultaneously enter the final digits of their security codes, the computer primly declares “lockdown engaged”, and the entire room erupts into a cheer. Even with the knowledge that he’s going to be spending the night in the unenviable position of Designated Sober Adult, Jim can’t help but grin as he passes through the crowd of his crew, soaking up the excitement. Several of them toast him as he passes, and some who would hardly dare to shake his hand on duty even reach out to slap him companionably on the shoulder. With the loneliness of command as his constant shadow, he relishes these little moments off-duty where his crew aren’t afraid to be themselves around him.

The main party is taking place in rec room two, the one with the bar, the best speakers, and cross-corridor access to the spacious observation room four. He claims one of the few tables in the corner, opposite the bar, props his feet up and settles in for the evening. Spock follows him over and Jim allows himself a few moments of self-indulgent ogling as his first officer folds the graceful lines of his body into the chair next to him. _Tomorrow_ , he thinks, grinning, the electricity of anticipation flickering through his veins.

 _Jim?_ Spock asks, eyebrow arching.

He noticed the grin. _Oops_. Jim shrugs, smiling wider, then leans in towards Spock - speaking mentally would be the most logical idea in such a loud room, but speaking aloud gives him the opportunity to to be close, “Whatcha reckon, Spock? Think we can handle this rabble?”

Spock glances around the room and Jim does the same; a rudimentary dancefloor has been marked out with tape so that the people waiting at the bar can take their drinks without being jostled by dancers, but the silver strips across the floor are barely visible with how busy it is already. The bar is crowded, crewmen having to raise their voices to have their orders heard, and there’s foot traffic out into the busy corridor, where a secondary unofficial dancefloor seems to have formed itself. It’s safe to say that the party has begun in earnest.

“We have faced far superior threats with fewer resources,” Spock folds his hands neatly on the table and tilts his head ever so slightly as he turns back to Jim. There’s something affectionate in his eyes that makes Jim’s toes curl and his heart clench, “I have great confidence both in our teamwork and our ability to resolve this evening with minimal incident.”

“Me too,” Jim says, smiling dopily, because he’s telling Spock _tomorrow_ so he doesn’t need to worry about hiding it any more.

Uhura turns up shortly after and drags him into the heaving mess of a dancefloor which, even sober, he can appreciate the fun in. He stays between her and Sulu and keeps to the little group of bridge crew, as previous parties have resulted in some inappropriate advances from crewmembers who are able to keep their crush on the captain totally in check sober, but tend to get out of control when drunk. He really, _really_ doesn’t want a repeat of that time Lieutenant Rogers tried to kiss him and then sent him a 10,000 word apology the next day - it took nearly two hours of coaxing to get him out of the bathroom stall he’d locked himself in and convince him he didn’t have to resign. The guy still won’t look him in the eye.

Jim alternates between dancing with the bridge crew, getting pulled into random conversations by starry-eyed crewmembers, and sitting back at the table with Spock. About an hour or so in, Bones joins them, walking through the crowd with his drink held high above his head to stop it from being spilt, an aggrieved expression on his face.

“What’s up, doc?” Jim asks innocently as Bones sits down next to them.

“‘S too damn loud,” the doctor grumbles, and Jim has to strain to hear him as he sinks further into his chair, cradling the glass of whiskey against his chest, “Y’all really want early onset hearing difficulties? Cause there are many easier ways to go about that, and none of ‘em involve deafenin’ _me_ too.”

Spock leans in closer across the table, pitching his voice at the perfect volume to be clear over the music, “Your presence is not mandatory, Doctor McCoy. I am certain that deck twelve will be out of earshot of the festivities.”

“Yeah,” Bones shrugs, “Well someone’s gotta stick around ‘n make sure that you fool kids don’t hurt yourselves.”

Bones knocks back the rest of his drink with the kind of expression that Jim recognises as meaning something bigger is wrong underneath the superficial complaints. Jim sighs, wishing he had something stronger than orange juice in his glass to face this conversation with.

“Hey Spock, maybe you should do a quick lap of the corridor, make sure everything’s ship-shape, huh?” Jim says, loudly with forced cheer, and when Spock opens his mouth to respond, the confused furrow appearing between his eyebrows, Jim quickly projects, _Look, there’s something up with Bones and he’s sure as hell not gonna spill whilst you’re here. You know how he is. Please?_

“Of course, Jim,” Spock stands, gives Jim a meaningful nod, then disappears into the crowd. Bones watches him go with a distracted air, his empty glass pressed to his chin.

“Alright, Bones, what’s eating you?”

“Not a fan of parties, ‘s'all,” he folds his arms, lifting his glass to his lips absently then scowling down at it when he remembers that it's empty.

Alright, Jim thinks, rolling his eyes, so we're playing _this_ game.

“Maybe not, but you're a fan of alcohol, and dancing with nice women,” Jim leans a little to the side and peers through the crowd, “And I can see Doctor Marcus over there, not dancing _and_ without a drink,” he turns back to Bones and raises his eyebrows, “That's one a hell of an opening.”

Bones’ mouth twitches in the way Jim’s been watching for - and he's been practising the art of interpreting microexpressions on _Vulcans_ , so yeah, he catches it. “Ah,” Jim says, “So _she's_ the problem.”

“No, no, she's not done anythin’ wrong,” Bones cuts in quickly. “It's me, I just...got in too deep.”

Jim frowns, “You mean you think you spooked her or something?”

“I don't know, maybe. We didn't speak much when I was down on Itamish - obviously I was busy, and she was elbow deep in that project that she and Spock have been in cahoots over-”

“Hang on, hang on,” Jim squints, “You're not getting jealous of _Spock_ are you?”

Bones gives him one of his Are You Outta Your Corn-Fed Mind looks, “Good god man, give me _some_ credit! No, I am not jealous of _Spock_. We just didn't really talk when I was off the ship and she was very...distant with me when we spoke today.”

“Distant how?”

“Distracted, like her head’s off somewhere else and she'd rather be off doin’ whatever’s got her preoccupied ‘stead of where she's at.”

Jim shrugs, “That's just because she's got an experiment she’s working on - Spock does that too. I'm sure there's nothing wrong.”

“I dunno, Jim,” Bones toys morosely with his glass, “I think maybe I should just let her be.”

“I thought you really liked her?”

“I did. I _do_ , I really do. But...I suggested she sit in next time I call Joanna - I thought they’d get on like a house on fire ‘cause Carol’s parents were divorced too and Jo’s just startin’ to get into science at school, and lord knows torpedoes sound more excitin’ than what _I_ do - but it was after that she started actin’ odd,” he looks down at his hands, “So I figured that maybe she liked the flirtin’ and the dates but she wasn’t interested in more and I made things weird by showin’ my hand, emotionally speakin’, and she thought I was tryin’a get some kinda commitment outta her.”

 _Joanna_ , of course! That was why he got ambushed by an anxious Carol wanting to know Bones’ thoughts on kids. Jim runs a hand through his hair, trying to decide which is the lesser of two evils; allowing Bones and Carol’s relationship to deteriorate over a simple miscommunication, or betraying Carol’s trust and telling Bones about their obviously confidential conversation.

“Have you actually talked to her about it?” Jim asks, stalling for thinking time.

“Nah. Didn’t want to seem pushy. Figured if she was still interested I should let her come to me on her own terms, don’t wanna pressure her or anythin’.”

Jim bites his lip; he wants so much to fix this, to help Bones and make it all better in the same way Bones has helped him a thousand times over the years. It kills him to see his friend so desperate to open up and share his big heart, but also so afraid to have it broken again. Jim knows deep down somewhere that his interference won’t help here and that he needs to let them talk it out themselves - the most he can do is point them in the right direction.

“I think if you really want this to work then you should talk to her,” Jim says, nudging Bones with an elbow.

“You don’t think that’s too pushy?”

“I think that she’ll appreciate you being honest with her. And what is it you always say to me?” Jim clears his throat theatrically then screws up his face in the biggest scowl he can manage, “Y’all’d’ve better’ve had a damn conversation with each other a’fore y’all come whinin’ and cryin’ to me!”

Bones snorts, his expression saying _offended_ but his mouth curling at the corners for the first time since he sat down at the table, so Jim counts it as a win, “I’m pretty sure that didn’t make a lick of sense, Jim.”

“Yeah, but you got what I meant,” Jim says, grinning.

“I suppose,” Bones says in a long-suffering voice, though he grins back.

Spock weaving his way through the crowds to return to their table is enough incentive to make Bones get up to go. Jim slaps him companionably on the ass as he stands and considers, very briefly, doing the same to Spock, if he wasn’t sure that Spock would just break his wrist on instinct.

_Was your conversation with Doctor McCoy successful in discovering the root cause of what is ‘up’ with him?_

Even though they’d switched to conversing mentally, Jim allows himself to take the risk of shifting his chair right up next to Spock, as if they need to be close to hear each other, and squirms inwardly when Spock’s reaction is simply to move his elbow over so that Jim can share his armrest.

_Yeah, I’d say so. I think he’s gonna be just fine._

_I am gratified to find your interpersonal skills have prevailed once more in the face of the doctor’s cantankerous and predictable nature._

Honestly, Jim isn’t sure how everyone in the room isn’t turning to stare at him, how they’re not all pointing and gaping at the spectacle he’s making of himself, because he feels like he’s fucking _glowing_ , like affection is oozing out of his pores, too much to be contained behind his smile, too much to be contained by his _heart_.

But the earth, however many lightyears away it is, keeps spinning, and everyone around them keeps dancing.

Sulu and Chekov pull him into the crowd for a few more songs, and after that he gets drafted into a Group Synthehol Pong team for the game set up in observation room four. He’s got more practise than he’d like to admit from the academy and, whilst he’s only an honorary member due to his status as designated sober command officer, he lands enough shots to feel like a real asset to the team. He persuades Scotty to take his place - which he thinks, privately, is probably a bad deal for his team, though will make the game a bit more fair in the long run - and by the time he manages to make his way out and back to the corner of rec room two again, he finds Spock crouched on the floor beside Lieutenant Coleman, who is clutching her bloodied leg.

“What happened?” Jim yells over the music.

“She tripped over a chair-leg,” Spock explains, “It appears to be merely a moderate dermal abrasion, however I believe first aid would be wise in order to prevent infection and further blood loss.”

“Got it; you take her into the corridor where it’s less busy and I’ll go find someone from medical.”

The room is packed enough that it takes him several minutes to locate any of the medbay staff; he thinks he spots M’Benga on the dancefloor, but as the only way he’d be able to reach him would be by crawling through people’s legs, he gives up on that idea pretty quickly. He doesn’t know any of the nurses well enough to recognise them in a crowd in a darkened room, but, after some strategic jumping and a few moments stood on a chair, he finds Bones.

He’s leaning on the bar, head half tilted away though Jim can see by the side of his cheeks that he’s smiling. The glass in Bones’ hands is empty but Carol’s there next to him, her arm looped through his and her chin resting on his shoulder. He says something and Jim grins as he sees the way Carol lights up in response, that big sunshine smile growing across her face, the way she shifts even closer to reply.

With how noisy the room is, Jim doubts they’ve had a proper conversation yet, but he’s pleased that they’re at least together. It’s a start. A _good_ start.

“Couldn’t find anyone,” Jim tells Spock as he returns to him him in the corridor where he’s pressing a wad of paper napkins to a rather dazed-looking Coleman’s shin, “I know where the dermal regenerators are though, I’ll just go grab one myself.”

Spock’s eyebrows immediately lower at this suggestion, “Will the medical staff not react negatively to your removal of their equipment without permission?”

“The medical staff will react _more_ negatively if I interrupt their night off,” Jim points out, shrugging, “This is the lesser of two evils, trust me.”

Medbay’s only two decks down, so it doesn't take him long to locate a regenerator and start heading back. The first turbolift that arrives is somewhat _occupied_ by Yeoman Rand and Navigator Darwin - an unexpected combination that suddenly sheds light on why Rand has a tendency to linger on the bridge during alpha shift after she brings him his reports - who both immediately jump apart and snap to attention when he clears his throat.

“Sir-” Darwin begins, face twisted in mortification. Jim waves a hand with a sigh and a rueful smile.

“We're off-duty, don't worry about it. Just-” he sighs again, “Just go find somewhere with a lock, alright?”

“Thank you, Captain!” Rand grabs Darwin’s hand and darts out of the turbolift. Jim hears their embarrassed laughter as they vanish down the corridor, and whilst he's happy for them, something inside of him twinges just a little in wistfulness.

He gives Spock the regenerator when he arrives and crouches to asses the still worryingly glassy-eyed crewman, “Coleman?” he says in a cheerful voice, raising it so she can hear over the party noise, and smiles encouragingly when she turns to blink at him, “Hi there, can you remember what you drank tonight?”

She has to think about it for a few seconds, “Olhert made synthehol punch,” she mumbles.

“And you had some?”

Coleman nods, then lifts a hand to her head and winces.

“Well, it does seem to hit some people worse than others. Can you tell me the stardate?”

“2261.189.”

“Alright, and the alphabet now, please?”

Coleman manages it, even if Jim has to keep reminding her to speak louder.

“Okay,” he pats her reassuringly on the shoulder, “An early turn in and a big glass of water, I think, and maybe avoid synthehol in the future.”

Coleman nods miserably.

Jim turns to Spock, _How's it looking?_

Spock finishes his final sweep of the regenerator and sits back on his heels to reveal a neat healed pink line on the smooth brown skin of Coleman's shin, _The abrasion is adequately treated. Superficial investigation suggests that Coleman does not require serious medical attention and that she simply needs to, as you would say, ‘sleep it off’. I have flagged her condition with with medbay to ensure that a doctor checks on her more thoroughly tomorrow._

_Good thinking. Do you-_

“Mai! There you are!” A young man - Ensign Khalid, science track, the Captain Part of Jim’s brain supplies helpfully - bursts out of the rec room crowd, then pales when he sees who is looking after his friend, “Is she okay?”

“She's fine - just a trip and a nasty case of the Synthehol Spins, she'll be fine in the morning. Do you know where her quarters are?”

“Yeah, I'll take her.”

He helps Khalid haul Coleman to her feet, and as he watches them stagger away down the corridor, he feels that warm, familiar pride at how his crew cares for each other. Spock passes him back the dermal regenerator and he tucks it into his pocket, “Remind me to take this back to medbay before the end of the night, will you? M’Benga’ll kill me if he finds out I took it without permission again.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, “That would violate his Hippocratic Oath.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to _him_ ,” Jim mutters. How the hell did he wind up with such a terrifying group of medical staff? He wonders if _Subduing Reluctant Patients With Only Three Words_ is taught as a class at the academy, in between _So Your Crew Like Banging Aliens: Space STDs And How To Treat Them_ and _Fifty Ways To Hypospray Your Captain Into Submission_.  

“In the unlikely event that Doctor M’Benga begins to display uncharacteristically homicidal tendencies, I will ensure your safety.”

Spock’s face is completely neutral but there’s something in his tone that suggests that he wants Jim to remember that he’s being humoured. This new brand of gentle exasperation - the kind of semi-sarcasm that Spock allows himself to vocally hint at in order to almost fondly reprimand - is a special type of communication that has only begun post-Khan. It’s kind of condescending sometimes but Jim _really_ likes it.

“Thanks, Spock,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“I am gratified that I can reassure you in this matter.”

Jim opens his mouth to respond but whatever stupid comeback he’s readying vanishes as the music abruptly stops, leaving a deafening, ear-ringing silence. And then just as suddenly as it stopped, it starts up again, ten times louder, a new pounding, upbeat song that Jim vaguely remembers hearing in the gym a couple times. Grandma Kirk got him hooked on classical music as a kid and he’s been a nerd for older stuff ever since; newer hits generally pass him by, though even he recognises the fast pace and catchy tune that has crewmembers pouring out of the observation room to join the main party across the hall.

The crush of bodies rushing past leaves both him and Spock pressed against the wall to avoid being swept along. A particularly enthusiastic lieutenant almost knocks Jim over in their haste, and would have succeeded had Spock not caught him by the arm. They manage to push their way out of the main throng and duck around the corner into the now empty observation room. The music is marginally less deafening here, though still louder than is comfortable.

“Perhaps it would be wise to remain here for the duration of this song,” Spock suggests.

“Yeah,” Jim snorts, “No kidding.”

Spock’s hand is warm on his elbow, a solid reassuring presence that catches Jim and stops him making an embarrassment of himself. It's a pretty good metaphor for their whole relationship, Jim thinks, as he watches the last of the stampede try to pack themselves into the rec room, and he's about to tell Spock some pithy joke about it when he suddenly notices how close they're standing and the words die on his lips.

Spock's hand slowly slides from Jim’s elbow to the small of his back, anchoring him in. They're pressed together from knee to hip on one side, Jim's arm awkwardly sandwiched between them - if he were to take one step closer with his other foot they'd be chest to chest, nose to nose, not an inch of space between them. And he wants to, and he thinks, heart hammering, that Spock would be okay with that, but Spock’s staring down at him with that almost predatory intensity again and Jim can't move, he can't breathe, he can only wait.

He has no idea how long they stay there. It could be seconds, but it feels like hours.

And then suddenly Spock crashes their mouths together, and it's not graceful or gentle and their noses bump and Jim has to grab the front of Spock's shirt to keep from staggering back, but it feels like a star is exploding in Jim's chest and despite it’s lack of finesse, it is _perfect_.

After a few moments Spock pulls back. Whereas before Jim was frozen, unable to think or act, now his mind is racing too fast to keep up with and he has to clench his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. He feels dizzy with elation, eyes wide in disbelief. It takes a lot of willpower to stop himself from jumping up and down and yelling.

 _Spock_ kissed him. Spock _kissed_ him. Spock kissed _him._

“You seem...agitated,” Spock says. His palm is still pressed flat against the small of Jim’s back, fingers curled into the fabric of his command golds. Jim forces himself to relax his fists and moves his hands to grip Spock's shoulders instead, trying to ground himself and calm his thoughts.

“Well,” Jim croaks, forcing himself to speak to speak above the the thrumming music, “Yeah. You _kissed_ me.”

“Indeed,” Spock says, eyebrows ever so slightly furrowed, still searching Jim’s face for something.

It occurs to Jim that he should probably give Spock some kind of reassurance, or maybe just pull him into another kiss, but apparently his brain has other ideas because when he opens his mouth something totally different comes out.

“I spoke to Seliea. This afternoon.”

Despite his plans to explain it all tomorrow, something in his heart is desperate to be totally honest with Spock and lay everything racing in his head bare. He wants to do this, have this conversation now and let Spock understand how eager he is to pursue a future where their daughter is in their lives.

Spock leans back further, which is frankly unacceptable, and uncurls his fingers, which is practically criminal, “She has awoken from the _yuk t’hakausu?_ ”

“Yes. No. Sort of - she did but now she's back asleep again. I spoke to her about-”

The song ends abruptly, and Jim ends up yelling “T’Androma!” into the momentary quiet. Spock steps back, startled, and then winces almost imperceptibly when the next song begins at equal volume to the previous. It's uncomfortable on Jim’s human ears, so he can't imagine what it must be like for sensitive Vulcan hearing. It would be easier to have this conversation mentally he knows, but the words keep coming and he can't stop them.

“I got in contact with her! With my head! I shouted to her across T’Androma’s mind-lake-thing and she woke up and we talked, like _real_ talked not in our heads, and- and I didn’t think I was ready, you know? I didn’t think I was ready but now I’m thinking about it, and-” Jim is dimly aware that he’s babbling, and very much more aware that Spock has made no move to come closer again. In fact, he’s watching Jim with the kind of expression he reserves for when Bones is hanging around the bridge and making emotional suggestions that Jim is actually considering following; ie, when he perceives something very concerning is going on. And Jim’s faced down genocidal Romulans, fought hand-to-hand with Klingons, and walked into the warp core room knowing full well that it’s going to kill him, he ought to have nerves of steel-plated _concrete_ by now - but, somehow, nothing feels as terrifying as Spock’s stare fixed on him from a foot away. Frustratingly, it just makes things worse, and he can’t stop babbling, “Look, this is a _lot_ , okay, this is a lot to take in! It’s crazy and weird and it’s something we should probably talk about properly, some other time not now when it’s so loud, and, oh god I’m rambling, but it’s a big deal! And I wasn’t sure if it was right, I was so - confused! - really confused! But now I know that I just don’t want to do it-”

 _Without you,_ gets caught in his mouth as several crew members burst into the observation deck, singing loudly. Thankfully they are so wrapped up in their own fun that they don’t notice him and Spock lurking in the shadows, and instead occupy themselves with the games machine set up on the other side of the room partition. When Jim turns back to Spock he knows immediately that something is seriously wrong by the calculated _blankness_ on his face.

His suspicion is confirmed a moment later when he feels a strange sensation in his mind; it is cold - or not exactly cold, but rather the absence of warmth, and his thoughts bounce and echo around, too loud in a space where there’s suddenly no one to respond.

Spock’s shut off his end of the bond.

Jim can sense the shadow of it there, but it feels distant and inhospitable. Spock couldn’t have made it more obvious if he’d barricaded the door and put up a _No Entry_ sign.

Jim feels like his stomach has dropped into his shoes, “No, no, no!” He reaches out and Spock steps back, a pinched look on his face. Jim clutches at his hair, “Shit, no, no! Spock, look, I don’t know what you- just read my mind, okay! Just look into my mind and you’ll _understand_!”

“I do not believe that would be wise, Captain. You have made your intentions perfectly clear.” Spock says, and Jim’s not imagining the catch in his voice.

And then Jim processes the _Captain_. And then Jim gets pissed.

Spock’s shutting him out. Things got too intense, Jim overplayed his emotional hand bringing up keeping T’Androma, and now, instead of having a real conversation like adults, Spock’s _shutting him out._ Jim is filled with the fiery self-consuming rage of painful vindication as he realises this _isn’t_ his fault. This is Spock, being Spock, and spooking at the first sight of a warm decent feeling.

And he's had just about enough of that bullshit.

“Did you think this bond stuff was just a convenient way to get in my pants? Is that how Vulcans get off? Mental manipulation? Must be pretty nice to just take what you need and leave. Forget about all those nasty feelings. It's just an exchange right? Of course, you wouldn't know a real feeling if it bit you in the ass you- you _robot_. I can't _believe_ I was actually stupid enough to think-!” Jim cuts himself off with a bitter laugh, “Well if meaningless sex is what you’re after, get in fucking _line_ , Pointy.”

He knows he's gone too far but he can't bring himself to care when ugly, nasty pleasure curls in his chest at the split second of hurt that flashes across Spock’s face.

Vulcan microexpressions - he's got pretty good at reading them.

He never imagined he’d use that knowledge _against_ Spock, and despite the anger thrumming in his veins the thought makes his stomach churn.

Jim jumps as the communicator in his pocket buzzes with a nannycam alert, yanking him abruptly out of the bubble of their argument and back into reality, where the party is still in full swing, everyone’s having a good time, and, somewhere at the other end of the ship, a baby needs their attention. It’s an easy out, and Jim, suddenly exhausted by the weight of his crushing disappointment and impotent rage, takes it before Spock has a chance.

“Now if you don’t mind, I need to return that regenerator to medbay, and then I’ll go check on our _daughter,_ ” Jim tucks his hands behind his back in parade rest and sets his jaw, “I trust you’ve got this event under control, Commander?”

Spock blinks at him twice before he responds, which Jim grimly counts as a victory, “Yes, Captain.”

Jim leaves before he can say anything else.

The further he gets down the corridor, the more the fury in his heart dampens down into bleak misery. The music makes his head pound. He can’t stop his hands from trembling. He manages to dodge the crewmembers he passes without being dragged into socialising, and when he gets into the turbolift he sags against the wall, jaw clenched.

What _happened_ ? They’d kissed, and then all of a sudden there was that cold look in Spock’s eyes and he’d ripped his presence out of Jim’s mind. How the hell had it gone so _wrong_? The more he thinks about it the less it makes sense. If he’d just totally misread all the signals and Spock wasn’t interested that way, what the hell did that kiss mean? Had his ridiculous mouthing off really hit the nail on the head - had Spock only been buttering him up for sex?

Despite what he’d spat out in the heat of the moment, Jim knows that can’t be it. Spock's not that kind of asshole - Spock's not really an asshole at  _all_. It had to be that he'd had gotten spooked by the intensity of Jim’s feelings and withdrawn in some kind of knee-jerk Vulcan self-defence.

That, or it was the prospect of raising T’Androma with Jim that had Spock shutting down. Jim isn't entirely sure which hurts more.

The turbolift doors open and Jim’s already heavy heart sinks when he finds Uhura and Scotty cheerfully waiting there. They both brighten at the sight of him, though his return smile must be somewhat brittle because their expressions immediately falter.

“Just gotta drop this back at medbay,” Jim says in the most upbeat tone he can manage, waving the regenerator as he scoots past them and tries not to break into a run down the corridor to get away.

“D’yer think he’s alright?” He hears Scotty ask in a low voice.

He doesn’t catch Uhura’s response, but he can imagine her expression; equal parts confusion and concern. He’s gonna pay for that brush off tomorrow when she will undoubtedly scrutinise him all alpha shift, but as his main priority is making it back to his quarters without crying in front of his crew, he sets that issue aside for his future self to worry about.

He puts the regenerator back in the mercifully empty medbay and flees back to his quarters. As soon as he opens the door he hears the muffled screaming of T’Androma; she's set up in Spock's room, and as he lets himself in via their shared bathroom, it occurs to him how he’s gotten used to casually coming and going through this door which was once so impenetrable. Now it feels almost like a violation to sneak into Spock’s bedroom after he so thoroughly rejected him, but it gives him a petty sense of satisfaction and he can't bring himself to care.

Normally his first response to her distress is to glimpse into her mind to find the problem and try to comfort her psionically. Tonight he can’t seem to drag his thoughts out of their perpetual downward spiral, so even if he could summon the focus needed to connect with her, he'd probably do more harm than good.

When he reaches her cot he finds her thrashing and screaming, face screwed up and tiny fists balled, big tears streaming down her chubby cheeks.

“Hey baby girl,” he whispers, throat tight, as he lifts her up into his arms, “Hey, it's okay, I'm here.”

She curls her fingers into the material of his shirt - a texture that usually comforts her, though this time all it does is bring her scream down to a miserable wail. T’Androma rests her cheek against his shoulder and stares up at him with scrunched up watery eyes, clearly distraught, and Jim aches with guilt at the realisation that her sudden upset has very coincidental timing; clearly something of the incident between himself and Spock has transmitted to her through their bond.

She's so desperately unhappy because _they_ are.

All the twee fantasy futures where the three of them play happy families and warp off into the metaphorical sunset are ripped from his imagination. How can they raise their child together like _this,_ when every day will make her miserable? It would be far better for her to go back to New Vulcan. Seliea and T’Mir won't hurt her with their feelings, at least.

He carries her back through to his own room and settles down on the bed with her resting on his chest. She’s still crying hiccuppy-staccato sobs and it would be very easy to just let go and cry with her, but somehow after spending his whole retreat back to his quarters fighting tears, now they just won't come.

Perhaps that's how Vulcans do it - just pretend the emotions aren't there until they can't feel them any more. Fake it til you make it.

He wraps his arms around T’Androma and rests his cheek on the top of her head, rocking slightly from side to side and vaguely humming a 20th century song he remembers Grandma Kirk singing him to sleep with. It's as much to comfort himself as it is her, and it seems to work since, after a while, she cries herself out, just giving the odd sniff and occasionally a little trailing off high-pitched whine. For himself, the urge to cry is gone. Instead it is as if his feelings have solidified themselves into a cannonball that's lodged inside his chest, weighing down his heart. He's tired, more than anything. He has no idea where he and Spock can go from here - can they still function as a command team? If they both ignore it and stay steadfastly professional and cold, will it eventually just...blow over? Can they claw back any semblance of their friendship?

Such thoughts ought to actively distress him, but he finds they stir no more than a ripple of grief for something good and precious, now lost.

And another loss, distant like an aching phantom limb, not a real loss for it was never more than a possibility, though it hurts all the same; he grieves the opportunity to raise T’Androma. He and Spock can probably manage working together professionally, even if it's awkward to start off with, but co-parenting is a stretch too far.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs into her hair, like she can understand what he wants to tell her. She shifts in his arms at the sound of his voice and lifts her head up to look at him. Her eyes are that bright electric blue and gazing down into them reminds him of the first time he saw them, saw _her_.

The memories of that day on the Ambassadorial shuttle swim into his mind; the overwhelming flood of emotions, the fear, the sensation of drowning before being lifted to safety, and then opening his eyes and seeing Spock, the relief, he feels safe and warm and-

The harder he tries to focus on the memories, the more fuzzy they get. And the angles are wrong - he shouldn’t be able to see-

He blinks and looks down again at T’Androma, who is watching him intently. Could she-? Could it be possible that at such a young age she’d be able to copy the behaviour he’d demonstrated to her and project memories in response to emotion?

Well, most likely he was thinking a bit loudly about the shuttle and her memories were sort of...prompted in response. But when he gives her a weak smile, she yawns and smiles sleepily back, and he decides that whatever the truth is, it’s very possible that his four month old daughter just tried to cheer him up, and that makes him feel a _tiny_ bit better, so that’s what he’s gonna believe. And if she wasn’t already just about the cutest thing in the galaxy, that certainly puts her in the running.

It’s possible he’s a little biased.

He eventually falls asleep with her on his chest. The cannonball weighing down his heart is still there, but the steady warmth of the sleeping baby lets him distance himself from it.


	15. Chapter 15

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE:_ _2261.190._

_Preparing to release security lockdown with Commander Spock, as per protocol. No major incidents reported, a few minor injuries being taken care of in sickbay._

_Successful party: we didn’t break the ship and nobody died._

_Go us._

_Kirk out._

*

The next morning Jim drops T’Androma and her stuff off in medbay under the pretence that now they’re back on active duty they need to return to their previous arrangement. Bones’ rare good mood disappears the moment he sees Jim’s expression, and it’s clear that he wants to harangue him to find out what’s wrong, but Jim manages to wriggle out of a McCoy Inquisition by pointing out that he’s running late for lifting the security lockdown before alpha shift, and he can’t very well put the entire _ship_ on hold for one conversation.

Bones eyes him steadily as he takes T’Androma, and Jim knows he’s in trouble when his friend doesn’t push it, “Alright. I’ll see you at lunch, then.”

Jim immediately begins to make plans for getting out of lunch.

Having spent most of the time since waking bracing himself for having to interact with Spock for the process of lifting the lockdown, arriving to find him not actually there is somewhat anticlimactic. Scotty is waiting for him instead, sipping his first of what Jim knows will be a worryingly long line of coffees.

“Morning Jim, Mister Spock asked me to let you know that he's got a time-sensitive project going on at the moment, so he's already punched in his code right there for yer, all ready to go, and he'll be spending alpha shift down in the labs.”

“Oh really?” Jim says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “He will, will he?”

Regulations stipulate that any crewmember wishing to alter their assigned shift is required to submit the request to the captain via a specific Starfleet form at least an hour in advance of said shift. Jim tends to be pretty relaxed about it and is happy to allow heads of departments to reassign their staff, but Spock has always been a stickler for the rules; he once sent a request form two weeks in advance, just in case. If Spock’s willing to deliberately break protocol then…

Well. Shit. Etc.

It’s been less than twelve hours and Jim’s already had enough.

He notices Scotty’s anxious expression and summons a smile from depths he wasn’t aware he possessed, “Don’t worry about it, Scotty, I’m sure he won’t be needed. Thanks for letting me know.”

Jim punches in his code and, after making a short shipwide broadcast announcing that the ship is no longer on lockdown and their imminent departure from Itamish III, he notices Scotty is still awkwardly hanging around.

“Need something, Mister Scott?”

Scotty shuffles about a bit and rubs the back of his neck, “Well, ah, I was wondering if you had time for a wee chat after alpha shift? Got something I’d like to run by you.”

Jim weighs up the pros and cons of facing down the Georgian Whirlwind Of Concern And Unsolicited Advice versus the almost certainly weird and uncomfortable conversation Scotty seems to be simultaneously dreading but desperate to have. It’s a no brainer, really.

He agrees to meet with Scotty at lunch, in a meeting room as far away from both medbay and the canteen as possible. He’ll be in trouble for just dropping Bones like this, and the smart thing to do would be to get it all over and done with whilst Bones’ emotional spectrum is still in the ‘worried’ area, before it gets to ‘madder than a wet hen’ territory, but he figures he’s gonna have most of the bridge crew trying to chase him for answers anyway, so hey. He can’t quite bring himself to care.

Alpha shift passes slowly and is less awkward than he imagined due to Spock’s notable absence, but still not especially fun. Jim spends most of it idly swivelling his chair with the heel of his boot, trying and failing to concentrate on ship reports. Uhura shoots him a few scrutinising glances, though seems to be unsure over what to do, and doesn’t drag him into the turbolift like last time. He likes to think that he keeps his foul mood under wraps and stays at least polite, even if he can’t quite manage friendly, however when he hears Chekov anxiously hiss to Sulu that “Ketpin’s doing _The Swivel_ again” he figures maybe he’s not managed that one quite so well.

He does stop swivelling though. Since when has it been an emotional tell? He needs to keep an eye on that.

Jim can’t remember a time that alpha shift dragged so slowly or that he was so relieved to get out of the chair, but he practically launches himself at the turbolift doors when it’s over, messaging Bones to tell him _something came up_ and excuse himself from lunch with just a twinge of guilt. Something _did_ come up, technically, though he knows that whatever he tells his friend he’ll get an earful over it later. In the end it doesn’t matter.

“So,” Jim says, eyeing Scotty with concern as they punch their meal ticket codes into the mini-replicator in the meeting room, “Is this something about the ship?”

“Oh, no, no, this is completely off record,” Scotty grimaces, “Like, as off record as _possible_ , in fact I would appreciate if you never mentioned this to anyone, _ever_ , okay?”

Jim steers the anxious engineer over to a seat as they take their food, “Scotty, what is it? You’re starting to worry me here.”

“It’s nothing to worry about, I don’t think,” he laughs shakily, then glances up to the ceiling, unable to meet Jim’s gaze, “Well, you see, there’s a certain, um, conversation that crewmembers have to have with the captain before-”

“Oh god, if you need a Sleeping-With-A-Non-Human-Individual form - we don’t need to have a whole conversation about it. I _really_ don’t need to know, I’ll just close my eyes and sign it. As long as you can promise me that they’re an adult and fully consenting, anything beyond that is _Bones_ ’ jurisdiction.”

Scotty’s eyes widen, “Oh, no, that’s not- _no_ , wow, no,” he adds quickly, “I mean, no disrespect, each to their own! But that’s not- uh, that’s not what I was coming to talk to you about.”

“It isn’t?” Jim runs a hand down his face, “Oh thank god, I have to sign so _many_ of those, and everyone wants to do it by the book and give me all the details.”

“Well, I don’t envy you there, Jim,” Scotty says, shuddering.

“So what is it then?”

Scotty _umms_ and _ahhs_ for so long that Jim offers to order him to speak, if it would help.

“Oh, no, sir, I’m fine I just-” he takes a deep breath then exhales his sentence almost too fast to follow, “Regulations say that crewmembers must confer with the captain if considering a romantic relationship where the parties are of differing rank to make sure there’s nothing  _dodgy_ going on.”

Jim stares for a few seconds as his brain processes the information, then breaks out into a wide, if slightly pained, smile, “Holy crap, Scotty, congrats!”

Scotty grins sheepishly, “Aye, well, save that for when I’ve _asked_ her.”

“You’ve not-?”

“Well, uh, no, but I have reason to believe she might be amenable, so to speak.”

“Amenable?”

“I mean, we kissed, once, at the end-of-shore-leave drinks.”

Jim raises his eyebrows and Scotty quickly continues, “Not like that! We were both sober, takes a lot more than a wee bit o’ Synthehol Pong to get _me_ tiddly, sir, nothing- nothing like _that_. We went for a wander and had a very nice conversation and then she, er, she kissed me. And I’ve been too scared to talk to her since.”

“Scotty,” Jim says, “You haven't actually told me _who_ you're talking about.”

Scotty sucks in a breath, “Oh,” he swallows, “Nyota.”

“Holy shit.” Jim says.

“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Scotty cuts in quickly, “That I must be crazy for thinking she might be interested in the likes o’ me, seeing as she is - amazing - and I am - a potato.”

“Scotty, you're not a-”

“That's very kind, but I've got two eyes in me head Jimbo, I know I'm not remotely in her league. I also know that sometimes young ladies do nice things just to be friendly, and stupid men can take those things the wrong way…” he looks down at his hands, “So whilst I need to talk to you about regulation stuff, I was also hoping to pick yer brains on whether I'm barking up the wrong tree here. She's a good friend, always been very sweet to me, and I don't want to misinterpret this and make her uncomfortable.”

Jim reaches out to press a hand on Scotty's shoulder, “Uhura’s not the type to mess around with people's feelings, and she's pretty direct about what she wants. If she kissed you I'd say that's a fairly good indication that she's interested.”

“Thanks,” Scotty says, smiling shyly, “There's also, uh, another thing… you don't think Commander Spock’ll get funny about this, do you? Only I've seen what he does when he dinnae like people, and I don't really wanna get strangled against a console, or beaten half to death and dumped in cryofreeze. I mean I realise it's been a while now, and he's with you and all, but not gonna lie I am a _wee_ bit scared o’ him…”

“Wait, what do you mean _with me?_ ”

Scotty pauses for a few seconds, giving him a weird look, then breaks into a smirk and winks knowingly, “Oh aye, I get it, mum’s the word, Jimbo, I'll not mention it to the brass, but d’ya think-”

“Scotty,” Jim says firmly, feeling his face heat up as he clenches his jaw, “We're not- Spock and I are _not_ together.”

“Ooh it's alright, I know you're ‘not together’, but if you could just mention to hi-” Scotty cuts off as he sees Jim's expression, “-oh god you weren't joking.”

Jim shakes his head miserably.

Scotty winces and rubs the back of his neck, “Well, uh, I'm sorry about that Jim, I really am...I honestly thought you _were_ together, what with, uh,” he clears his throat and looks up at the ceiling, “ _Everything_ \- and then you two playing happy families with the wee lass…”

“Nope, just friends,” Jim says, smiling stiffly. Are they even _that_ anymore? Oh god.

“Huh. Well, have you _considered_ it? I mean, you two are pretty much-” Scotty crosses his fingers demonstratively, “-already, and you know I actually think it would improve his mood? Since he broke up with Nyota his responses on my reports have definitely got more _tetchy_ , and I don't appreciate it, I really don't-”

“Weren't we here to talk about _your_ love-life, Scotty?” Jim cuts in, sharper than he means to. He doesn’t want to lash out at Scotty and dampen his friend’s joy with his own pain.

“Oh, right, yeah, sorry,” Scotty fidgets with his cutlery, “So, uh, d’ya think I should ask her then? If she wants to be together?”

Jim sighs and drags out the most genuine smile he can find. It's a little easier than last time, thankfully, so maybe navigating this mess is just a matter of practice, “Yeah, I think you should. I think she might be - what was the word you used - _amenable_?”

Scotty grins broadly, dancing a little in his chair in a way that doesn’t seem like it should be cute in a man his age, but somehow is very endearing in its dorkishness. Jim can’t say that he’s attracted to his chief engineer - which is a big relief, honestly, because being constantly distracted by the ass of _one_ of his command team is bad enough, two would be a _disaster_ \- however, he can imagine how, after a relationship with a Vulcan, being with someone as emotionally upfront as Scotty could be refreshing. The more he thinks about it, the more that he thinks Scotty will be really good for Uhura; he’s the sort of sweet, smart, gentle guy that she deserves.

And he’s happy for them. Honestly.

Also maybe spitting with jealously but...mostly happy.

“Well, alright then,” Anxiety alleviated, Scotty reverts back to his usual bright energy, downing his drink in one gulp, taking a huge bite of his sandwich, and dropping off his tray back at the replicator, “I need to get back to engineering now, but thanks Jim, I appreciate yer help and I’ll let you know how it goes!”

He claps a friendly hand on Jim’s shoulder as he goes, the door slides shut, and suddenly Jim is left alone in a meeting room built for twelve. He looks down at his rather miserable chicken salad; a step up from just plain salad, but a definite downgrade from the chicken sandwich he’d been expecting. Bones must have changed his diet card. Again.

Speaking of Bones.

With another sigh, Jim dumps his salad and heads down to medbay, his conscience getting the best of him.

Bones glances up as Jim enters his office though says nothing, simply continuing to go through reports. Jim flops down in the chair on the other side of his desk and folds his arms, sinking down until his legs are stretched out and the back of his head is resting against the back of the chair.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Jim cuts in when Bones opens his mouth.

“Well, alright,” Bones says calmly, “But what I was _gonna_ say is that the li’l hobgoblin needs her feed, and I daresay a good cuddle might cheer you up some.”

Jim glances over at T’Androma’s cot. He can hear her burbling quietly to herself. He realises suddenly, out of the blue and with a pang of guilt, that he and Spock never bought her a teddy bear on Itamish III. Too late now. He’ll have to pick her one up next time they’re on Yorktown and send it on for her birthday.

It occurs to him that he’s not even sure about her official birthday. Some dad he is. Do Vulcans celebrate birthdays? Does she even have one, having not technically been born in the traditional sense? If she doesn’t he’s sure as hell rectifying that, Vulcan parents or no. Jim hauls himself to his feet and fetches a bottle from the tiny fridge Bones had commandeered to hold her formula then scoops T’Androma out of her cot. She’s excited to see him, and Bones is right - sitting down in the chair with her in his arms, gentle waves of happiness rolling out from her mind and brushing against his, the weight pulling on his heart feels a touch lighter.

Two more days and he’ll never do this again. They’ll get back to New Vulcan and she’ll be gone from his life.

His heart drops back into his shoes. He presses his lips together and forces the surge of emotions deeper down. It’s for the best.

“Jim,” Bones sets his PADD down and fixes Jim with a Look, “Now, you know I hate to pull rank-”

“Since when have you hated to pull rank?” Jim mutters. Bones ignores him somewhat sanctimoniously.

“-But as CMO it’s my job to make sure that you’re fit to serve, and right now I ain’t sure if you could fight your way outta a wet paper bag. Either you gotta sort this shit out, or you gotta decide when you’re gonna move on and stop mopin’ about it, and I’m tellin’ you that as your doctor _and_ your friend.”

Jim exhales heavily through his nose, “When we leave New Vulcan everything will be back to normal again.”

“Will it, though?”

“I don’t know what you want me to _say_ ,” Jim forces himself to whisper, because he knows if he raises his voice any more he’ll not be able to hold the anger in. The residual fury from the night before has left him irritable and defensive and he’s just about out of patience.

“I want you to tell me what you’re gonna do about this to make it right.”

And whoops, there’s the end of his patience.

Jim sets T’Androma back in her cot and takes a deep breath, his drive not to scare his daughter only just strong enough to keep his temper in check.

“Have you considered,” he hisses, curling his hands into fists at his sides, “That maybe this isn’t _my_ fault? That maybe it’s not _my_ job to make things right?”

“Of course I have,” Bones snaps, “The moment I saw you come in this mornin’ I knew some shit had gone down, and when I heard Spock wasn’t goin’ to alpha shift and had holed himself up in the labs I went straight down there to find out why the hell he’d gone and broken my best friend’s heart when it’s so obvious he’s totally damn pointy-ears-over-heels too. Only when I _got_ there he’d locked the doors and wouldn’t let me in ‘cause his little experiment was ‘volatile’ and ‘for trained personnel only’. Then I spoke to Carol at lunch and found out that was _horseshit_ , their experiment isn’t dangerous at all at this early stage, so I figured I’d try and get through to the less boneheaded of the two of you, only it turns out _you’re_ just as bad as _him_! You truly are fuckin’ made for each other.”

They stare at each other in silence for a few seconds, then Bones purses his lips and scowls.

“Damn, I told myself I wouldn’t swear in front of the kid.”

“You already said shit,” Jim mumbles, “Twice.”

Bones runs his hand down his face, “Ma would be spittin’ mad.”

“Probably,” Jim says vaguely, then smiles and nudges Bones with an elbow, “You really think I’m your best friend?”

“ _That’s_ what you took from that?” Bones says flatly.

Jim grins and leans over the desk into Bones’ personal space, grinning wider as Bones rolls his eyes and leans back, “You’re my best friend too, Bones.”

“James Tiberius Kirk, get outta my medbay right now and go sort this mess out, or so help me I will confine you both to bedrest in here for as long as it takes for you to kiss and make up.”

“You sure you want kissing in your medbay, Doctor McCoy?”

“ _Jim_ , will you fu-” He glances across the room at the cot, “-Piss off?”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Jim shoots an eyebrow-waggle over his shoulder, “How did it go with Carol?”

Bones says nothing, staring Jim down until he backs out of the office, but the corner of his mouth twitches up, which means it can’t have gone too badly. That’s good, at least.

Knowing Bones is on his side doesn’t fix things, not by a long shot, though it does make him feel less isolated.

He isn’t needed on the bridge for the afternoon shift but he goes anyway; the quiet, hardworking company of his crew is more appealing than moping in his quarters any day. They mostly keep their distance, politely respecting the apparently very obvious big black raincloud lurking over him - all apart from Sulu, who approaches Jim nonchalantly towards the end of shift, as if the tension around the chair isn’t thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Thinking of getting some fencing practice in before dinner,” he says, shrugging to indicate that it’s no big deal either way, “Could do with a partner.”

“Sulu, you know I can’t fence worth shit,” Jim folds his arms, awkwardly unsure as to what Sulu’s plans are and doubly unsure as to whether he wants to be involved in what is likely to be some kind of info-gathering activity.

And then he sees Sulu’s expression - a fleeting glimpse of frustration and sadness quickly covered over with casual indifference - and he regrets thinking like that about his friend immediately.

“T’Androma really seemed to like the gardens on Itamish III, maybe I could swing by the botany lab with her after dinner and you can help me make sure she doesn’t eat anything that’ll send her into anaphylactic shock or something,” he suggests quickly.

Sulu’s expression softens, “Sure, good idea. I’ve got some samples from shore leave I need to finish running through the analyser anyway, I’ll be up there at about 1900 hours.”

Jim goes through the motions of the rest of the day, feeling vaguely embarrassed by how morose it is to do it all now without Spock at his side. He's managed nearly three decades of dinners sans his Vulcan first officer, he should really be able to handle sitting in the canteen without sighing miserably every thirty seconds.

He picks up T’Androma earlier than necessary so he has time to take the long way to the botany lab, trying to bottle up the feeling of carrying her and tuck it away in his heart. Thankfully when he gets to the lab he finds it conspicuously empty of anyone but Sulu, though whether that's deliberate or not he can't be sure.

“So Sulu,” Jim says, pacing slowly around the lab and enjoying T’Androma’s excited reactions to each new shape and colour, “What made you want to hang out with Captain Grumpypants tonight?”

Sulu grins as he slips a new slide into the processor, “‘Captain Grumpypants?’ I like that, I’ll make sure to use it in the future.”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant Parking Brake,” Jim says, trying for nonchalance and a straight face and achieving neither.

“Low blow,” Sulu mutters, wagging his stylus in Jim’s direction over his shoulder, “Anyway, it just seemed like you could use something to take your mind off whatever’s got you in such a crappy mood.”

“Thanks,” Jim says quietly, genuinely touched. He and Sulu mostly hang out at the gym or on the bridge, and their socialising is usually as part of a group rather than one-on-one, but Jim’s really come to depend on his pilot’s quiet strength, level head, and incredible plethora of talents. Sulu’s pretty damn hilarious, too, though Jim’ll never admit that outloud.

Sulu turns towards him with a small smile, then notices where they are in the room, “Oh, careful near that _Urtica dio_ \- uh, the dark green one with the- that’s it, that one. Don’t let her touch the leaves; some people come up in pretty severe reactions to the oils they secrete.”

“Got it,” Jim says, stepping back so the plant is out of grabbing range, “I’m allergic to pretty much everything, so chances are she’s probably inherited-”

Jim cuts himself off half way through the sentence when his brain finally catches up with his mouth, but unfortunately _Sulu’s_ brain is working at full speed.

“What?” Sulu says, after a few seconds of silence, “Did you just-? ... _What?_ ”

“Uh,” Jim says, eloquent as ever. He was gonna tell them after they left New Vulcan anyway, he reminds himself, tamping down on the frantic urge to come up with some kind of transparent excuse for his slip-up.

Sulu gaze flicks rapidly between Jim and T’Androma, back and forth, as if comparing them will give him the answer he needs, until his eyebrows raise and his mouth drops open, “Oh my god, she’s your _daughter_ , isn’t she?”

“She is,” Jim admits, “I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself, though.”

“But she’s a _Vulcan_ , does that mean-” Sulu’s expression turns from shock to incredulity as he covers his mouth with a hand, “Holy sh- is she _Spock’s_ daughter, too? Is that what you guys were doing on New Vulcan that time, getting a baby?”

“What? ‘ _Getting a baby_ ’? No! Well, yes, I guess, but it’s _way_ more complicated than that!” At Sulu’s confusion, Jim elaborates, “Look, they’re using Vulcan genes and science to try and repopulate without needing actual people involved, but something went wrong and she needed my genetic material to survive. We didn’t _plan_ this.”

Sulu stares down at T’Androma for several moments, processing the information, then looks back up to Jim with a hopeful glint in his eye, “So is she staying?”

“No,” Jim says firmly, “She’s going back to New Vulcan with her moms.”

Sulu’s eyebrows lower, he reaches out a hand to rest on Jim’s elbow, and Jim sees in his face that he’s empathising with a pain that he himself knows well, “Ah,” he says quietly, “So that’s why you’re in a bad mood.”

Jim swallows against the lump in his throat and holds T’Androma a little tighter, “It’s for the best. The _Enterprise_ is hardly an appropriate place for a kid to grow up.”

“How come?” Sulu folds his arms, “Plenty of kids grow up on ships nowadays.”

Jim searches for a grown-up sounding excuse, “Not ships like _this_. It’s way too dangerous.”

Someone might hurt her, he thinks, Someone like _me_.

“Everywhere’s dangerous, Jim,” Sulu sighs, turning away and back to his samples.

There’s something in his tone, something that suggests this might be an issue Sulu’s struggled with personally. Jim waits, and when he doesn't respond, quietly asks, “What do you mean?”

Sulu turns back slowly, fidgeting with his stylus. He's solemn, not sad, which is a relief as Jim had been bracing himself for a tragedy.

“When Demora was still a baby, Ben and I had an argument; he wanted to move to Yorktown, for better job prospects and to be closer to the _Enterprise_ , but I wanted them to stay on Earth, because I thought they'd be safer on a planet than a civilian spacedock. Further from the action, you know?” Sulu rubs the back of his neck, “We didn't get a chance to resolve it before Khan attacked.”

Jim sucks in a breath. Sulu nods.

“Ben and Demora were in San Francisco when the _Enterprise_ crashed and destroyed half the city. Thankfully they were okay, but it made me realise that there are no guarantees - Earth _should_ have been safer, but it wasn't. You can never really know about this stuff, you just have to make the best of what you have,” he smiles, “Now they live on Yorktown, and I get to see them so much more than I would have if they'd stayed. And I do worry about them, a lot, but what should be safer isn't always the right call just because of that. Safety isn't something you can ever totally guarantee, so whilst you shouldn't totally disregard it, just...don't let it get in the way of giving her the future that's best for her.”

Jim bites his lip; it's one hell of a speech, and it might have been enough to convince him if safety was really the biggest problem. Sulu seems to pick up on this, raising his eyebrows and setting his hands on his hips.

“It's something to do with Spock, isn't it?”

“What makes you think that?” Jim asks far too quickly, cringing at his own blatant bullshittery.

Sulu rolls his eyes, “Are you kidding me? Spock sneaking out of bridge duty with a last minute absence note? You slouching in the chair and glaring out of the viewscreen like space has insulted you personally, occasionally turning to stare mournfully at the empty science sta-”

“Alright, alright,” Jim grumbles, “You’ve made your point.”

“The tension is _painful_ ,” Sulu folds his arms, “You know we hate it when our Dads fight.”

“Did you bring this up just to sass me, or are you going somewhere with this?”

Sulu holds up his hands, “No agenda, I just thought you might want to talk.”

“About this? No...thanks, but no,” Jim shifts T’Androma in his arms in an effort to get her to stop chewing his shirt, “I mean I appreciate it but-”

“No, I get it. Some things are just...too much.”

“Too much,” Jim murmurs in agreement.

Yeah, that feels like an accurate description.


	16. Chapter 16

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE:_ _2261.191._

_T-minus 27 hours to New Vulcan. Everything is on course for a successful handover; Ambassador Spock has spoken with the Vulcan council, who have agreed that T’Androma will be fostered by a family until Seliea and T’Mir can resume guardianship, and they will monitor her to ensure the dissolution of her psionic bonds with myself and Spock does not cause her too much mental trauma._

_Honestly, the prospect of allowing our bond to slowly die...it sucks. It really sucks. What if it_ does _cause her mental trauma? She's gonna be stuck there on New Vulcan screaming for us in her head and all we'll be able to do is say is, sorry baby, ask your other parents. I don't know how I'm gonna deal with just ignoring her like that._

_God, it sucks._

_I'm gonna miss her._

_I hope she'll be okay._

_...Kirk out._

*

Spock weasels out of the next alpha shift too, and doesn't turn up that afternoon either. Jim’s anger, which had burnt out into sadness, flares back up again as he sulks in the chair. He's hurting, and he's pretty confident that Spock must be hurting at least a _little_ as well, and yet instead of supporting each other and dealing with it together like a proper command team, like _friends_ , they're both going it alone.

Enough is enough. They should talk and at least ensure mutual civility before something life-threatening comes up and they're forced to work together still mad at each other. He should go and find Spock now - storm the labs, pull rank, refuse to leave until Spock _talks_ to him.

Jim reaches out inside his mind, brushing mental fingers against the shadow of their bond; what once was warm and flowing is now cold and inaccessible. He can't feel anything from Spock, not his whereabouts or his health or his mental state.

Jim clenches his fists on the armrests. He _should_ go and talk to Spock but his pride bristles at the prospect - it's _always_ him chasing, Spock backing away out of reach. Two steps forward five steps back. Jim putting himself out there emotionally, making himself vulnerable, and then inevitably getting dropped when Spock retreats because it's too much.

He's had enough. Yeah, he _should_ go and talk to Spock, but he's not gonna. Not yet, at least. Let him stew a few days and let the bridge crew talk. Let Spock deal with their whispers of misplaced concern without Jim there to buffer them.

He finishes his paperwork and leaves afternoon shift early, mind too full to socialise and not wanting to worry his crewmates any more than he already is. He loses himself in a workout for a few blank, blissful hours, and that's why he is totally unprepared when, on his return trip to his cabin, the turbolift stops on the penultimate floor to admit Uhura and Doctor Marcus.

Carol smiles warmly in greeting, but Jim is distracted by Uhura, who is studiously avoiding his gaze, jaw clenched and arms folded.

After a few moments of excruciating silence, Jim sighs and hits the turbolift _hold_ button, rounding on her in a way that he hopes means business without being outright intimidating, “Alright, what is it?”

“No,” she says flatly, “I don't want to be involved in any more of your drama! You can figure your own way out of this shit this time.”

“ _This shit_ isn't my fault. _He's_ the one who started acting weird and avoiding _me_.”

“I don't care whose fault it is-” Uhura makes an abortive gesture with her hands, “-Just talk to him and sort it out.”

“He's skipping alpha shift and locking himself in the labs - I think that makes it pretty clear that he doesn't want to talk!” Jim folds his arms, “Computer, continue turbolift path.”

“ _Turbolift path_ -”

“Computer, hold turbolift!”

“ _Turbolift path paused_.”

Uhura’s hands are on her hips, eyes blazing, “He never wants to talk, that's why you need to _push_ him! I thought you knew that by now!”

“Maybe I'm sick of pushing him!” Jim snaps, “Maybe I'm sick of always putting myself out there and making the first move! Maybe I want him to put in a bit of fucking _effort_!”

“You mean shore leave wasn't enough for you?”

Jim stares at her blankly for a few moments, “Okay, what?”

“What do you mean ‘what'? Did nothing happen?”

Jim frantically does a mental play-by-play of shore leave, “I mean...no? We didn't argue or anything?”

“I don't mean _argue_ , I mean - look - we spoke just before you left - apparently he's finally grown a pair of eyeballs because he suspected that you returned his interest and he some advice on how he should proceed,” she sighs, “I told him most people start with dates, you know, traditional human courtship rituals.”

Oh my god, Jim thinks. Dinner and a movie. _Dinner_ and a _movie_! It felt weirdly like a date because it was _meant to be one_. The chess by the lake, getting him coffee, touching his hand - Spock had been trying to _woo_ him, but his insecurities had convinced him that Spock couldn't possibly be interested so he'd missed all the signs.

“Holy shit,” Jim breathes.

“You're honestly telling me you had no idea?” Uhura rolls her eyes, “ _Unanitania!_  You're as blind as each other.”

“Um,” Carol says awkwardly, “Should...should I get out, or…?”

Jim and Uhura both turn to blink at her.

“I am so sorry,” Uhura says, grimacing and hitting the hold button again to get the lift moving.

“None of this leaves the turbolift,” Jim implores her, “Please, Carol.”

Carol relaxes into one of her sunny smiles and Jim knows instinctively that she's thinking about their talk in the medbay, “It's really okay. Just...maybe let me out before you carry on? I've got to be in the labs with Commander Spock every day, and I've got a terrible poker face.”

“Of course,” Jim says, smiling back.

The turbolift doors open at the next floor and Carol gets out, turning back to wish good luck in a move Jim finds sweet until he realises the comment and wink are directed at Uhura.

“So if you didn't argue on shore leave,” Uhura begins without preamble the moment the doors shut again, “What _happened?_ "

“He hasn't told you? I thought you two were still pretty chummy.”

It's a cheap shot. Uhura doesn't rise to it.

“He won't talk to me. He's barely talking to Carol, and she's working on the same _experiment_ as him.”

Jim runs a hand down his face, “It was at the party. Everything was fine and then suddenly it wasn't, and he blocked off his end of the bond and ran away,” he tangles his fingers in his hair, “I've been over it in my head a thousand times, I just don't know what _happened!_ ”

Uhura reaches out to squeeze his elbow, expression softening in quiet solidarity. Jim is thankful for about the millionth time that he's somehow landed the best crew in the fleet.

“Jim,” she says gently, “Don't let him run away. You're gonna need his support tomorrow when you say goodbye to T’Androma, and no matter what he says, he'll need you too.”

Oh god, T’Androma. His stomach lurches; he'd almost managed to set aside his misery over that in favour of the more immediate shitshow going on in his life, but it's _tomorrow_. He'll have to get up early and have a difficult conversation with Seliea and T’Mir - sorry, we can't raise this child because we've had a catastrophic bust-up and now we're not talking to each other.

Yeah, real mature. They'll definitely be impressed with _that_.

Uhura's right - she usually is, if he's honest. He needs to talk to Spock, and soon. But his pride and the still slow-burning anger in his heart protest at the suggestion.

Jim sets his jaw and shakes his head, “No, he was the one who ran away when it got too much - _he_ can be the one to start this.”

“Vulcans aren't commitmentphobes, whatever’s wrong it's not what you think. Give him a chance.”

“Only if he takes the first step and stops running away,” Jim slumps against the wall of the lift, “I can't do this any more. I can't keep getting my hopes up.”

She sighs, glancing away when the turbolift arrives at her floor and the doors open.

“I don't know what to tell you,” she squeezes his arm again then steps back to leave the lift, “Do what you think is right and do it soon, for all our sakes. We're sick of being caught in the middle of this crap.”

Jim runs a hand through his hair, “Right,” he mutters, watching her walk away for a few moments, then sticks out a hand to catch the turbolift door before it closes, “Nyota?”

She turns back to him, eyebrows raised.

“I hope things go better for you in the future than they have for me,” he says, then cringes at his own clumsiness, “In, uh, in this department, I mean. With Scotty.”

She must understand him because she smiles, a pleased flush further darkening her cheeks, “Thanks. It's definitely still early days yet, but, uh,” she snorts, “Well, me too.”

*

His aqua-shower ration has been replenished for the start of a new solar month, which is helpful timing and when he gets back to his cabin he makes the most of it. His future self won't give him any thanks but he's too emotionally wrung out to care, so he spends way too long sat on the floor against the tiles, enjoying the strangely soothing burn of almost scalding hot water down his back.

He's determined not to let himself brood. He grabs dinner from one of the meeting room replicators and returns to his desk, dulling his mind with reports, then sifting through every bit of paperwork he'd put in his procrastination pile. It's the most productive night he's had in a long time, possibly _ever_ , but when he sets his PADD down it's still only 2100 hours and he's way too awake to turn in for the night.

He trudges over to his bed, kicks off his boots, and settles down with a paperback he picked up last time he was on Earth. Its cracked spine and wrinkled pages attest to how many hands it has passed through. It's not a classic, just a cheesy detective novel that he'd liked the cover of, however it gives the desired effect of totally switching off Jim’s brain to reality for a couple hours. He reads until he feels like he's going cross-eyed - ever since Bones found out he’s allergic to Retinax V, he's been determined to get Jim wearing glasses, and Jim is coming to to the sad realisation that he might have to give in - then sets the book down and stares blankly at the ceiling.

He's tired, but not the kind of tired that makes you sleepy. He recites math equations in his head, and when that gets boring he tries to find shapes in the imperfections of the bulkhead metal.

On the periphery of his hearing, there's a sound.

Jim freezes, trying to figure out if what he thinks he heard can possibly be right.

A knock on his bathroom door.

His heart hammers.

“Come in,” he says, willing his voice to sound calm and unaffected.

Spock walks in; he's wearing his tight black uniform undershirt and a pair of looser than regulation black pants, which Jim has come to recognise as what he wears to meditate in, like the Vulcan equivalent of pyjama pants. He looks _good_ , and Jim's heart skips a beat for a very different reason.

“Commander,” Jim says, trying for the safety of professionalism, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Jim,” Spock says with that specific brand of Vulcan earnestness that throws all the snide passive-aggressive comments Jim has lined up abruptly out the airlock, “I...I find myself unable to obtain rest.”

“You can't sleep?” Jim clarifies, throat dry.

“I cannot sleep,” Spock confirms.

“Oh,” Jim swallows, “Well, neither can I.”

“Unfortunate,” Spock murmurs, still not moving.

“I've found that meditation can help, sometimes. Perhaps we could try it.”

“A wise suggestion,” Spock shifts awkwardly, eyes darting towards where Jim is sitting in his bed, clearly unsure. Jim takes pity on him and pats the mattress at his side with a hopeful smile - Spock takes the hint and comes to settle on the bed, cross-legged.

He smells like incense. Jim's heart still feels like it's trying to break through his ribs, but there's a hope building inside of him that's starting to lift the heavy cannonball he's been carrying in his chest the last few days. Maybe they can do this. Maybe they can still be friends, at least. He'd swallow his feelings forever if it would ensure that he and Spock could keep the quiet strength of whatever _this_ is.

“Relax your body and calm your mind,” Spock instructs, “Focus only on your breathing. If any thoughts should enter your head, allow them a brief consideration, and then choose to let them go.”

Jim closes his eyes and breathes in deep through his nose. He can hear Uhura’s voice in his memory, pushing him to resolve this; Spock has taken the first step and, for the first time, made himself vulnerable to try and build a bridge between them. The relief is enough to extinguish the remains of his anger - it doesn't seem like much on its own but it represents a willingness to try.

Jim can work with that.

 _Spock_ , he thinks, pushing the thought at the space in his mind where the shielded bond sits. There's no response.

 _Spock!_ He imagines hammering against the shield with a fist.

There's movement, like a tickle in the back of his head, and the bond which was previously locked up tight suddenly becomes more like a screen door - he can't feel much through it but it's no longer completely closed off to him. He can feel Spock _there_ , and Jim is flooded with a sense of _rightness,_ that the shutting off was wrong and this is how they're _supposed_ to be.

He hears Spock’s sharp intake of breath. He opens one eye, _You okay?_

 _I am well, it is_ _just...it is difficult to remain shielded with the...intensity of our bond - the compatibility of our minds drives an instinctive desire to stay connected, so it requires great concentration to hold myself back._

Intensity, compatibility...the words stir a memory which jumps to the forefront of Jim’s mind unbidden.

_T’hy’la._

Spock's eyes both snap open and he stares, mouth slightly ajar. Even through the screen-door-shield still in place Jim can feel shock, _“_ How did you come to learn this term?” Spock demands, the sudden volume of vocal communication making Jim flinch.

“It- it was just something Seliea said.”

Spock pinches his lips together, “Are you aware of its meaning?”

“No, she wouldn't tell me.”

“It would not be her place to,” Spock looks down at his hands, “It is something which I would recommend you forget.”

Jim nods, bewildered. He closes his eyes again and it takes several minutes of sitting in silence before he can gather his courage.

 _If our minds are so compatible that they_ want _to be joined then...why did you leave, Spock? Why did you cut me off?_

The question is drenched in misery. It's probably a horrible thing for a telepath to get flung at them but Jim can't separate the emotion from it. For better or worse, Spock is gonna know how much it sucked, and maybe now Jim is being honest with him they can try to move on.

 _You made yourself quite clear_ , Spock responds stiffly, _You told me you did not want this._

_What? No I didn't, I would never say that!_

Spock's resolve seems to be faltering, uncertainty in his tone, _After I...after I kissed you, you gave no positive reinforcement; you began speaking of irrelevant matters, which led me to conclude that you wished to ‘change the subject’ in order to avoid mutual awkwardness. And then you said that whilst you'd experienced internal conflict, you did not want to do this._

 _What?_ Jim runs through his own memories of the night, and then the absurd reality of the situation hits him, and he covers his face with his hands, _Oh my god, are you telling me - all of this was just a_ misunderstanding _? I was interrupted, Spock!_

 _I do not follow_ , Spock thinks, but there's hope in his tone and he shifts a little closer. That's all the confirmation Jim needs.

 _What I said after you kissed me wasn't irrelevant or to change the subject. I spoke to Seliea and she told me she doesn't have the resources to manage her job while looking after T’Mir, and looking after a baby. Obviously she isn't going to leave T’Mir, and she can't just stop being an ambassador with no trained replacement, but T’Androma - she has_ us.

 _You did not give me this context,_ Spock thinks, eyebrows raised, and Jim can almost hear his mind racing trying to process the new implications.

_Yeah, I...I ramble sometimes, when I'm emotional or excited, I should have realised - fuck, I'm sorry…_

_You do not need to apologise, I jumped to conclusions._

Jim reaches out and rests his hands lightly on top of where Spock's sit on his knees. His heart’s still pounding but his chest is light, the cannonball more like a balloon now, buoying him unstoppably upwards.

 _What I was trying to tell you is that I want this, but I can't do it alone. I want_ you _here with me, I want us to be partners, in everything. I want us to do this together. I want to be a family._

Spock stares into his eyes. Jim feels him flex his fingers ever so slightly under his palms.

 _You reciprocate?_ The thought is hesitant, like Spock barely dares think it.

_God, yes. So much, and for so long! It's been driving me crazy trying to keep it in. I’ve been so embarrassingly obvious, how can you possibly not know how I feel about you?_

Spock turns his hands over, so they're palm to palm, and runs his thumbs lightly over Jim’s knuckles gently, reverently. As if he is something precious. _You bestow your affections on those around you with such ease_ , _I convinced myself that your actions towards me meant nothing more than those towards any other member of the bridge crew_. _It was not until recently that I allowed myself to...hope._

 _Let me show you,_ Jim takes Spock’s hand and lifts it to his cheek, _Please, meld with me and I'll show you everything._

“My mind to your mind,” Spock whispers, “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

The screen door holding their minds apart explodes open and Jim is flooded with warmth and that familiar _rightness_. Spock is there with him and he could burst from how good it feels to be known, fully and without reservation, to be accepted for and despite everything he is and isn't. To not be _alone_.

He opens his eyes and Spock is in front of him, the two of them standing in the bright chaos of space that represents Jim's mind. Jim reaches out to twine their fingers together, and he feels Spock’s pleasure like an electric frisson flicker up through his wrist. Together they stand and look out at the stars, the planets, the suns and moons. Jim lets himself feel without the fear of having to hold back in case of rejection and laughs as the lights and colours build, swirling around Spock’s body excitedly.

 _See?_ Jim beams, too happy to be self-conscious, _Even my brain’s ridiculous over you._

Spock reaches out and traces the edges of the lights with his fingertips, raising an eyebrow as they circle his hands and dart between his fingers, _I should have told you the first time that we melded,_ Spock turns to give him one of those soft looks that always makes Jim’s toes curl, _Your mind is fascinating, Jim. Its complexity is astounding and intoxicating._

Jim bites his lip, trying to hold back what is possibly the goofiest grin of his life. He can’t control the stars, however, which grow in intensity and continue to swarm around Spock, _You gotta stop saying nice stuff like that, you’re gonna make me cry and then I’ll be gross._

 _I would not care if you were ‘gross’,_ Spock says mildly, and then he _smiles_.

It’s a proper smile - not just the soft-eyes thing, not the you-know-I’m-humouring-you amused face, not even Spock Prime’s special eye-glinting thing that makes Jim feel like the cherished centre of the universe - Spock’s mouth curves up and the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little bit, and holy shit, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing Jim’s ever seen. He’s moving before he’s even conscious of it, stepping through the swirling lights of his emotions, taking Spock’s face in both his hands, and kissing him soundly.

 _I love you_ , Jim whispers as he pulls back, resting their foreheads together. Spock slips his arms around Jim’s waist and pulls him closer so their bodies are flush. It’s everything Jim has dreamed about for years but also nothing like how he imagined.

 _Jim,_ Spock murmurs, and though his voice isn’t strictly audible there’s no mistaking the hoarseness of it. His eyelashes brush Jim’s cheek as he blinks, _You wish to know the meaning of t’hy’la?_

Jim shrugs, smiling easily, _Only if you want to tell me._

 _I want to tell you,_ Spock takes a half step back, moving to take Jim’s hands again and holding eye contact, _It is a term which originates from the times before Surak, when Vulcans were warriors driven by violent ungoverned passion - seeking the t’hy’la bond was considered a worthy life’s pursuit, much like the quests undertaken by the knights of Terran history. There is no direct translation; it could be summarised as a relationship which has the bond of a brother, the loyalty of a friend, and the intimacy of a lover. You could maybe describe it using the word soulmate - T’hy’la have minds and spirits so compatible that they are capable of calling out to each other across galaxies._

Jim can hardly breathe, the concept too huge, too incredible to believe, _And that's what we are? T’hy’la? Seliea said she could feel it when you melded with her._

_She shares the same bond with T’Mir, so she is able to recognise it in others. She is a wise woman. My mother spoke highly of them both._

_Not that I want to change the subject away from how our perfect brains are destined for each other-_

Jim feels the instant flash of low-key amusement from Spock despite the lack of outward reaction, and yeah, his ego could get used to to this. Spock thinks he's _funny_.

- _But we get to New Vulcan tomorrow and we need to give the ambassadors an answer. About T’Androma. And I know I've said that this is something I want but if you're not cool with it you've gotta tell me, maybe we can figure out some joint custody thing, you don't-_

 _Jim,_ Spock squeezes his hands, _I understand that my sentiment may be overwhelming for you, but here in this place, I cannot lie or mislead; whatever the galaxy sets in our path next I wish to experience it by your side, for as much time as is granted to me. If you told me now that you wished nothing more than friendship, I would teach myself to be satisfied with that - and if I only had the opportunity to be part of T’Androma’s life from afar, I would have been content to know she was safe and well cared for. The prospect of being allowed to have both of you is...beyond my ability to verbalise._

 _You're really good at big romantic speeches, you know that?_ Jim swallows away the pseudo-tears pricking at his eyes, _You should do them more often._

Spock reaches up to brush Jim’s cheekbone with a thumb, _You said I was to cease making you cry._

Jim laughs, leaning into the touch, _Belay that, then - say nice things to me all the time, even if I cry._

 _Affirmative,_ Spock’s mouth curls up at the corners, another beautiful smile that belongs purely to Jim, _I will endeavour to continue to for as long as you wish._

Jim can’t not kiss him after saying something like that.

 _Do you really mean it?_ Jim murmurs when they pull back, _You really want to do this - be with me, and raise T’Androma together?_

_I already told you that I cannot withhold the truth here in the meld._

_I know, it's just...it's a big commitment, and I want to know you're sure. That you’re not just doing this because_ I _want to._

 _Vulcans do not fear commitment as many humans do,_ Spock points out, though there's no reproach in his tone, _I have felt her mind since she became developed enough to reach out to me; your experiences of the parental bond seem intense to you and you are psi-null - it is impossible for you to imagine what it means to be so finely attuned to all she feels, to experience the bond fully. It would be accurate to say that I am...emotionally compromised, where she is concerned._

 _Oh_ , says Jim, because he’s too full of too many things to say anything else.

Spock slides his hand around from Jim’s cheek to the back of his neck and pulls him into another kiss, his other hand twining their fingers together, and kisses him until the stars and supernovas of Jim’s emotions overwhelm them both with their light.

Since going much further will likely end up blinding them, Jim leans back with a grin, _As much as I’d be really interested to try out some crazy Vulcan mind sex in here, you should let me out so I can kiss you for real._

Spock’s fingers tighten on Jim’s hand, _You do not make a very good case for ending the meld._

Jim’s grin widens, _Please? I’m not sure my pride could handle it if our first time is technically imaginary._

Spock studies his face for a few moments, then exhales heavily in what is definitely a sigh.

_It concerns me that my willingness to concede to your requests increases by 57% when you exhibit that expression._

_What, when I smile at you?_ Jim waggles his eyebrows, _Definitely not going to abuse_ that _…_

Spock's face, lit by the stars, blurs and fades into darkness, and this time there's no fear because Jim knows when he opens his eyes again that face will still be there, right in front of him, real and gentle and oh-so-kissable.

He opens his eyes. It is. Jim wastes no time in reacquainting himself with Spock's lips.

He'd always felt Spock’s hair was a personal attack on his sexuality. It was like some kind of universal cosmic karma coming to bite him in the ass, probably as payback for all the years he spent pre- _Enterprise_ being a shallow asshole, that he would fall in love - real, proper, forever-and-ever, soulmates love - with a guy who has a fucking _bowl cut_. 

A bowl cut. Seriously.

It could be worse. Vulcans as a species could be obsessed with mullets instead. But still! Spock has a bowl cut and somehow, despite all rationality, it does _not_ make him less attractive. Which is a source of personal outrage and torment for Jim.

So naturally the first thing he does when they leave the meld and tumble backwards on the bed - after he spends about ten seconds wondering if this can actually be real and not just a very cruel dream - is to get his hands into Spock’s hair and ruffle it up. Bye bye neat bowl cut, and fuck you very much.

“Holy shit,” Jim pants inbetween kisses, “How is your hair so _soft_?”

It’s a really stupid thing to do because this is _Spock_ , who, naturally, immediately pulls back to answer his query.

“Over millennia of living on a desert planet Vulcans evolved-”

Jim grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him back close, “Tell me later, tell me _later_ ,” he growls.

*

 _CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE:_ _2261.193._

_We’ve just left New Vulcan, heading to our next assignment in the Jundiere Gamma system. Transferring our medbay patients - the Vulcan Ambassadors and two of their Andorian security guards - went smoothly, and Doctor McCoy predicts that given time and adequate rest the Ambassadors will eventually recover to full, or near-full capacity._

_I would also like to state for the record that we have a new permanent civilian passenger on board; we have taken full custody of T’Androma until the end of the five year mission, at which point, dependent on Starfleet’s future plans for the Commander and myself and the state of health of Seliea and T’Mir, her guardianship will be further discussed. It is likely that we will reach a shared arrangement where she will be able to grow up experiencing both sides of her heritage._

_...Technically Starfleet hasn’t approved it, but Spock says that there are no regulations_ against _us adopting our own daughter. I mean, we filled in all the paperwork on New Vulcan, so it’s totally legal, and seeing as we’re not scheduled to return to Earth for over two solar years, I figure there’s not much they can really do about it._

_Suckers._

_Uh. Computer, strike that last bit from the record._

_Someone - I’m gonna say probably Sulu or Uhura, but I’m not ruling out Yeoman Rand - has decided to get everyone calling me ‘Captain Dad’ whenever T’Androma’s on the bridge, and whilst it’s pretty funny, I am so incredibly glad Spock has refused to participate. Yikes._

_So, yeah. Everything’s shipshape here on the_ Enterprise _. Until the next disaster, anyway._

_Kirk out._

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that's left is the epilogue...I can't quite believe that we're here! Thank you so much for sticking with me - some of you have been waiting for this fic for literally years - and I hope you've loved it as much as I've loved writing it. Huge love to spicyshimmy, who originally cultivated this AU back in 2013 and who co-wrote the first half with me, and to searchingforspock, who has been an amazing beta reader, editor, and all-round motivator. Hopefully there will be more written for the lives of Jim, Spock, and T'Androma in the future!


	17. Epilogue

James T Kirk, as old as Pike was when-

As old as Pike was.

It’s May in San Francisco, which means the sun is out and so are the cadets, huddled in groups on every patch of green available on campus, some frantically cramming for finals, some testing each other, some having already given up and focusing on sunbathing instead. He smiles at a group of them as they pass him and one walks into a lamppost.

He’s waiting at the bottom of the steps outside the main exam hall, next to the quad. He remembers when he was a cadet, in their place, teasing Bones as they jogged up and down those stairs, talking about the Kobayashi Maru, Bones rolling his eyes as Jim declared his intention to take the test and _win_. He smiles as he remembers his first glimpse of Spock in the trial - prim, proper, and pissy as hell - remembers thinking that the Vulcan could be pretty hot if he'd only pull the giant stick out of his ass.

And where might they be now, had he not cheated? Jim not grounded but assigned to another ship, heading off into the black with Gaila and hundreds of other cadets who were unknowingly doomed to warp into the middle of a battlefield.

Despite the sun on his face, the thought makes him feel cold.

No, he can't believe it would have ended like that - never to meet Spock, miss out on his _first best destiny_ , as Ambassador Spock described it once. Pike's mentorship could have seen him assigned to the _Enterprise,_ perhaps even on the bridge. Maybe this alternate self would have proven himself with respect and intelligence rather than brash belligerence, maybe-

No, there's no use for what-ifs, and he has no need of them. He is where he is, is _who_ he is, and he's satisfied with both. With that ring around his finger - a simple band for a simple feeling - his regulation uniform pants a little tighter than they should be, and the sunglasses Starfleet brass doesn't quite approve of but hasn't quite said no to.

He doesn't start as many fights as he used to.

He finishes them.

“Am I getting old?” He'd asked the mirror that morning as he did up his uniform, half to himself and half to Spock.

“Aging is an inevitable occurrence that will cause you considerably less distress if you accept its process,” Spock had responded promptly from the bathroom.

Jim squinted, straightening his collar, “That's a yes, then.”

Spock emerged from the bathroom, resplendent in his crisp black instructor’s uniform, and had come to stand behind Jim, who took the opportunity for a good spousal ogle. Spock looks as good in it now as he did twenty-something years ago on the other side of the auditorium.

They're more than just a pissy instructor and a mouthy cadet now; they're Captain Spock and Admiral Kirk, saviours of the galaxy multiple times over, poster boys of Starfleet, the most notorious power couple in the Federation. His dress uniform has so many medals he sounds like a one-man-band when he wears it. All they do is make him feel tired and old and _heavy_.

“I do not understand what aspect of ageing vexes you; you are not less handsome, less intelligent, or less respected than you were as a younger man. In fact, you seem to have successfully increased your share in all three areas.”

Jim grinned at his husband in the mirror; he'd gotten rather good at this cheering up business over the years, “You smooth Vulcan, you.”

Spock’s response was little more than an eyebrow raise, though his mouth had twitched upwards in the briefest of smiles, and he'd lifted his hand to brush their fingers together.

Some things change, and some things stay inevitably, steadfastly the same.

Jim's lifted out of his memories by the sound of many pairs of feet approaching. The exam hall doors burst open to admit a sea of red, cadets pouring out into the sun, loud and excited to be free. A few stop to salute him, and he sends them on their way with a laugh; he's not here as Admiral Kirk, he's here as _dad_.

He spots T’Androma towards the back, deep in conversation with another cadet - Ramirez? He's pretty confident their name is Ramirez - though she pauses and goes on her tiptoes to scan the quad as she exits the doors. He steps into her line of sight and can't help but smile as she notices him and her face lights up. She gives him a wave and he's immediately taken back to the little girl who demanded everyone transported off the ship wave goodbye to her first.

It's hard to believe that the confident young woman in cadet reds jogging down the stairs towards him is the same person. Makes him feel _old_.

“Hey!” She greets him, flicking her dark hair out of her eyes as she ducks in for a side-hug hello.

“How did it go?” He asks, pleased that even with all her classmates around she has no qualms with him tucking her under his arm as they walk. He's very tactile, even for a human, and he's always been concerned that one day Vulcan propriety will win out and she'll push him away. Not today though, to his relief, and he kisses the top of her head as she rattles off exam questions.

“-Question three gave me a little trouble; I guess they thought they were being sneaky putting in an arcturious _five_ model instead of the Constitution class standard seven-point-three, and I know people say all warp cores look the same, but-”

And there it is. He doesn’t flinch, and after all these years the worst he feels is a clench of his stomach, which is...good.

T’Androma is engineering track, and for some reason Jim can’t quite fathom, she’s decided to specialise her research in warp core technology - for the challenge, she says, because she wants to be out there on the new frontier of technology, and because she finds them _fascinating_. He pretends the reason he’s weird about it is the thought of his daughter working up close with all that radiation, and every time he says it she gives him a fond look and tells him she’s fine, there’s so much shielding dad, you’d have to actually go _in_ it to get irradiated, and that would be _stupid_.

He hasn’t told her the real reason, and he doesn’t plan to. He doesn’t want to dampen her passion or, you know, devastate her emotionally by describing how he _died_. But he’s spent twenty years trying to protect her, so there’s still that little part of him he has to fight down that turns his own trauma into a protective anxiety monster. Today he wins the fight, and is able to smile and nod as she talks about radiation shielding and realignment techniques.

“-And I'm pretty confident on question six because Aunty Carol comm’d me whilst I was revising that module so I wound up rereading it like three times - oh, by the way, she and Uncle Bones can make it to my graduation! And ko-mekh and m'aih have taken some time off to get here, but I haven’t heard from Uncle Scotty yet, though.”

Jim grins, shaking his head, “I’m not surprised, he’s been dragged into working on the _Excelsior_ so he’ll be angrily knee-deep in incompetent ensigns at the moment. You’ll be more likely to get a response from Auntie Nyota.”

She snorts, he squeezes her shoulder, and looking down at her like this, the sun catching just so on her hair and cheekbones, she looks so much like Spock. Most people think she looks more like him, as her blue eyes and the fact that she visibly emotes make her seem distinctly more human than Vulcan. Sarek had confided in him, in a very rare moment of quiet between the two of them, that he believes T’Androma is growing to greatly resemble Amanda, her namesake. Jim mentioned this to T’Mir, when she and Seliea visited for T’Androma's last birthday, and after a moment of silent contemplation, she'd solemnly agreed. It seems...fitting.

He’s never been so proud as he is walking next to her.

“I can't believe that was your _last exam_! And then you're gonna _graduate_! God,” he groans, then lifts his arm to gesture with both hands a space about a foot long, “You used to be _this_ big!”

“ _Dad_ ,” she replies, rolling her eyes, but she's laughing.

She never went through that teenage phase of being embarrassed by her father. Which, thank _god_ , because that would have destroyed him.

“So where are we going for lunch?” She asks excitedly.

“You and food,” Jim sighs, as if he doesn't know she got it straight from him.

“I can't help it,” T’Androma grins, jostling his arm around her as she puts an exaggerated bounce in her step, “I’m a growing girl.”

And isn't she just.

“That Italian place, off the square-”

“The one where they do the carbonara Andorian-style and have the non-replicated parma ham?”

“That’s the one. We'll meet sa-mekh there once he's done with the Kobayashi Maru debriefs.”

She groans, “Augh, I'm salivating already just thinking about that carbonara.”

“Sa-mekh thought he might bring along Captain Saavik, if you don't mind?” He shrugs, “We thought it would be good for you to meet your commanding officer before you're deployed.”

T’Androma leans away a little so that she can look up at him properly, “You mean our assignments have been published?”

“Not officially, not until after your exam results are released, but she's captaining a Green Run to the other side of the Alpha Quadrant in September, to check on a research outpost, and with your grade average and starship experience they'd be…” Jim grins, rolling his eyes, “Well, _illogical_ not to assign you.”

She gapes for a few moments, “Holy crap…” she breathes, then quickly remembers herself, “I mean, yes, it would be good to meet her.”

She's got that bounce in her step again, energetic in her new freedom, bright and excited at the prospect of the future lined up ahead of her. He remembers the delight inside of him, almost enough to burst, when he'd been given his first five year mission - _that's deep space, Spock!_ \- out on the edge of the map, no boundaries to hem him in.

And now? The future lined up ahead of _him_? The usual agreement with captains is that for every five years in the black they spend three teaching at the academy, redistributing the wealth of knowledge. He and Spock had a good couple years to pay back, but he didn't resent taking a groundside assignment as it meant they could be closer to T’Androma during her time at the academy.

And being the infamous Vice Admiral Ciana’s second in command at ‘Fleet Ops has been more interesting than he expected - nothing on a captaincy, obviously, but it's a constant test of his brain and experience. Sure, there are days where Spock’s calming presence in the back of his mind is the only thing stopping him from vaulting Admiral Nogura’s desk and strangling him with his own bureaucratic red tape, but this is a job where most days he does some good, and if he can't do good he has the sway to kick up a damn big fuss about it. There are people all over the galaxy who are alive today because he was at his console when they needed him; looking for the patterns, working the angles, coaching other captains through his own personal brand of impossibility-thwarting.

And this is a job where he gets to go home to his husband every night, wake up slow at the weekend, take his daughter out to lunch every couple weeks, and spend Christmas with his mom. Being a starship captain may be his first best destiny, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate the simple things.

Though that doesn't mean he's _retired_ or anything. He's not _that_ old. He's got more adventure in him yet - Ciara promised that if he did five years in her department she'd personally recommend him for command again, and he's holding her to that. If she goes back on her word, well...he's pretty confident that he could persuade Scotty to help him steal a starship, and with the two of them aboard the rest of the crew would quickly follow, either out of exasperated concern or to sit back and watch the practically guaranteed drama. He'd take _Enterprise_ for preference, of course, but he's heard _Excelsior_ has a fancy new warp drive he wouldn't mind trying out.

Hell, the most difficult part of the whole thing would be convincing Bones to get on the transporter pad.

“You alright, dad?” T’Androma asks gently, patting his arm. She's got one eyebrow raised in a way which is both endearing - because that and her solemn expression really bring out the Vulcan in her - but also a vaguely aggravating reminder that he's the only loser in his own damn family that can't do it.

“Yeah, sorry, I was just-” he shakes his head with a wry smile, “-just remembering when I was in your place.”

She smiles back and leans her head lightly against his shoulder as they walk.

“Heroes don't get happy endings, Jim,” Bones had told him darkly, fear in his eyes as he frowned at Jim over his drink, at the party he threw himself for finally achieving his decades-long dream of resigning from Starfleet, years ago now, “Better give it up before it gets ya.”

Maybe he has a point. Or maybe he's just a compulsive worrier and a resigned pessimist. At any rate, it's a thought for another day; they’re nearing the restaurant and delicious smells are wafting their way, lifting him immediately out of his pensive mood. Spock's thoughts brush against his in affectionate greeting at the same time as Jim spots him across the square, cutting a sharp figure in the crowd in his black uniform, Saavik standing at parade rest at his side. T’Androma waves and they both simultaneously raise the ta’al in response.

_You are emotional; is all well?_

Jim smiles, _Just...feeling old._

Spock’s concern is warm and welcome, if unnecessary, _Are you still troubled by this awareness?_

Jim considers it. _Is_ he troubled? The sun is shining, his daughter is beside him and smiling, his husband looks frankly _unreasonably_ attractive, and the promise of a good meal is on the horizon.

By the standards of most people those facts alone are enough to make him a very lucky man.

 _Nah_ , Jim thinks, taking a deep breath and letting the weight in his chest dissipate at the realisation that he’s telling the truth, _I’m good_.

James T Kirk, as old as Pike was when he died.

James T Kirk, older than his father ever got to be by two decades.

Their ghosts don't haunt him so vividly any more; he's forged his own path, blazed his own trail, and he thinks they'd be proud of that. His mother certainly is. Ambassador Spock was.

He once gave this interview and said, “You know, saving the world - galaxy, sorry, galaxies, multiple...you get the picture - point is, doing that, you think, this is the greatest thing I’ll probably ever do in my lifetime. You can’t stop living once that happens, obviously, but you figure, all right, I’ve peaked. And then you have a kid and you realise, you didn’t know _anything_.”

So yeah, he's old. It's a difficult thing to accept when you're used to being a prodigy, but when he thinks about his father, and about Pike, and everything he wishes they'd been here to see, it gets easier to understand that in his line of work getting old is a luxury, not a curse. He’s not some punk kid lost in his own ego, out to prove himself or die trying anymore; he’s found his place, his home, his family, he has _been_ found.

As Spock, Saavik and T’Androma make their greetings and head into the restaurant, Jim pauses. Here, on the cusp of an ambiguous though undeniably bright future, he takes a moment to savour the feel of the warm summer sun on his face, and then he heads inside.


End file.
